


Sherlock: Woman Tainted

by MusingsOfOphelia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Smutty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-04-28 19:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 26
Words: 42,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5103308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusingsOfOphelia/pseuds/MusingsOfOphelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is an operative for MI6, the Seductive Killer. Found at twelve years old as an orphan and displaying remarkable skills Mycroft Holmes assists in training Arabella Lockley. As she progresses as an asset, a carnal and emotional relationsip develops, one in which Arabella "Babe" is in love with the eldest Holmes brother. One night she does not report after her mission and is found beaten and shot on the steps of 221 Baker Street. Curious and determined to discover more about the strange young woman, John and Sherlock help her recover. While her looks are blemished she must focus on protecting Sherlock. As danger ensues so does romance as the tainted woman finds not so tainted love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Arabella’s breaths were sharp like knives to her chest and throat due to the freezing night air and London fog. They were fast behind her, she knew, and if she could just get to the center of the city she would find light and shelter, even if it was only for an hour or two. The Corsica never ventured from the docks that far, the mysterious mafia never wanting their true faces revealed. As snow began to fall her knees went numb, the black thin jumper exposing her legs, the holes in her boots allowing the frost to burn her toes as well, and she was afraid she would trip and fall and then, that was it. She’d be gone forever, and probably have to find a way to kill herself before she was sold off. That was something she wasn't going to survive.

The human trafficking market in London was thriving and Arabella at twelve found herself the target of the French Corsica, the largest cartel in the UK from Marseille. After her prostitute mother passed and left various debts unpaid, they sought her out to bring in the earnings. It didn’t help that she was beautiful, having her mother’s long, golden curls, bright, midnight blue eyes and olive skin she was sure came from her estranged father. They knew she would fetch a higher price than a common whore, she could be sold to a diplomat or government official with a taste for raping and beating young girls, and Arabella knew in her heart she would rather die. As soon as she realized they were on her tail after a close encounter on the docks where she had robbed a ship of some heroin to sell for food money, they had begun closing in. The thought forced her to run even faster and harder until at last a copper flashed his lights and sirens, easing up close to the curb. She stopped and thumbed the packs of heroin in her pockets. Jail was apparently her only escape at this moment.

The officer found the drugs fast, but could tell the girl wasn’t a dealer or an addict. For one, she was armed with only a stiletto knife in desperate need of a sharpening. She was thin but the kind that indicated she was starving and her big blue eyes were wide and innocent, framed by dark lashes and her pupils were all regular. She was a homeless kid in a ripped dress, worn boots and a thin ugly army green jacket.

“Are you the one that caused the scene in the yard today? The one that tried to blow up that train car on the cargo ship?” he asked confused, clearly in awe.

Arabella nodded praying he would send her far away if it meant the Corsica could never get to her again. Jail would be a smidge safer she hoped.

“Call in Mr. Holmes to the precinct. I have the attempted bomber from the docks. He’s not going to believe this.” He said into his walkie strapped to his uniform shirt front and proceeded to cuff her and opened the back passenger door for the girl. She came quietly and without force, relief softening her features as if she was safe for the first time in years. The men at Scotland Yard confiscated anything she might use as a weapon, offered her hot coffee and put her in the interrogation room alone, waiting for Mycroft Holmes to arrive. He certainly had not expected the call from the Prime Minister notifying him the terrorist had been reprimanded from this afternoon’s nearly fatal and catastrophic incident. MI6 had planned that drug raid for months and were quite disappointed when the culprits abandoned their shipment and the shipping manager was baffled having no idea the container held the contraband. What was even more unexpected was the girl he saw sitting on the other side of the one way mirror.

The girl he was told was twelve years old although, she was much smaller than average and very underfed. Her face was beautiful and heart shaped, with round, naturally rosy cheeks, olive skin and wide round blue eyes that seemed to be hiding a very tormented past. He did not feel pity for her, did not feel anything at all really. He simply saw an opportunity for the Crown. If she had come from where he thought then she was lucky to have escaped the flesh trade by the filth of London for this long. But, a twelve year old that could design a bomb from a small metal spark and heroin on the busiest imports ship dock in the UK without being discovered by the two MI6 agents undercover, had to not only be brilliant but also, had to have impeccable survival skills.

The man entered the room quietly, and Arabella’s eyes shot up from her cuffed hands in her lap. He smiled at her but it did not reach his eyes, his suit she could tell was expensive as well as his umbrella of which he tapped the point of on the tiled floor.

“You my lawyer?” she asked looking up at him with her brow furrowed. She had a rather fierce look on her face, caution in her eyes from a lifetime of mistrust in every person she'd met.

“And what if I were?” he asked crossing the room and standing before her on the other side of the table, his head tilted at her curiously.

“I mean to plead guilty of all charges. I… it was me heroin. I w-wanted to blow up that ship. F-for fun.” She stammered, clearly a terrible liar. Well, he could fix that easily when she became an operative.

“You seem rather eager at the prospect of prison.” He stated loftily, his eyebrow lifted and assessing her with his eyes, attempting to read her answer before it fell from her lips. She merely nodded and looked back down at her cuffed hands and he knew she was running from the Corsica. A pity she would probably not be able to help him stop them for awhile; a child they had wanted so desperately for such physical beauty could get MI6 the in they needed to shut them down. But there wouldn't be enough time to train her properly and he did not need more blood on someone's hands at his command.

“I don't think prison would suit you, pet. What if you could be more? Get an education, dress like a true lady, earn your own income and have your own home? Would you want that?” he asked, baiting her with nice words and knowing she would take it. His smile was saccharine and warm, a façade of course, but she would not know that. She was a child. What young woman who knew nothing but poverty and running and starvation wouldn’t want that life?

"I could get me a kitten, and read big books in front of a fire?" she asked eagerly, hope filling those delightful blue eyes.

“Come with me, child.” He said with a sweet smile extending his hand to her and Arabella followed him into a beautiful town car with a driver that took her to a gorgeous building not far from there. Inside a tall, white, town house in Mayfair at the end of a street, Arabella was introduced to Madame Leroux, a tall woman in a tight, short black dress and spiky black heels. Mycroft had already e-mailed her the information he was able to find on Arabella and issued her a surname, birthright and identification since none could be found on the girl while they were in route. It seemed her entire origin was non existent. The surname he pulled out of thin air.

“This is Arabella Lockley, Arabella, this is Madame Leroux. She is going to start your training as an operative for the Crown. She is the best at turning young girls into graceful young ladies.” He said matter of factly, grinning as Arabella bristled with pride. She was so glad of her new fortune, she would be like a knight defending the Queen. A noble and honorable duty she would take with severity and excel at. Another young lady came to escort her to an upstairs room and as Mycroft turn to make his leave he stopped at the door.

“I’ll be back. Break her.” He said and was gone with a click of the door, his umbrella bouncing on the paved path as he reentered his car and rode to his comfortable flat for the night.


	2. Chapter 2

The blonde woman in the red, long satin evening gown left the mansion and lit her cigarette, blowing halos from her first drag into the night. She seemed resplendent as she finished it and waited leisurely for her car to arrive in the late summer night. What she did not know was that it would never arrive; her man servant had been easily disposed of, strangled from the backseat and never even sighting his assailant. She seemed perfectly at ease, the clutch she held tight to her side the only sign she suspected something was amiss, protecting the Intel she had gathered that very evening. She reminded him of an angel somehow, and he could almost feel the air leaving her lungs when he crushed her and violently snuffed the light out.

No one escaped the Corsica, and fourteen years later that little daughter of a whore was selling herself for the government when she could have brought them in millions and caused their new business to boom. She had cost them an entire shipment of pure powder and MI6 had tailed them for years following the incident. She was worth little now that she was older and no longer pure. She would die for running though, thinking they could protect her. She thought she was better, thought what she did was better than where they would have put her. He would make her regret it, make her plead for mercy; plead for death and after hours of pain she would get it. But only after he destroyed that beautiful face, carved all over her perfect breasts, and stuck a knife in every sensual curve of her figure. It would be beautiful and bloody and horrific. Carefully, the man lurked towards the blonde angel and readied his gun, planning to do just enough damage to drag her away, to the docks where her life began and would end, in a warehouse where her screams would echo but not be heard. Couldn't have anyone trying to stop him, after all.

They had trained their little weapon well, and when he made his first grab she disarmed him his gun and dug her elbow into his ribs. She damaged herself more instead, because he was wearing a bulletproof vest. Babe, as they called her began to fight like a wildcat, but it did not matter in the least. He managed to feel her ribs crack under one blow of his fist, and then bloodied up her nose with the other causing her eyes to water and her vision blurred. He pushed her to the pavement to take advantage of her momentarily blindness and landed another blow to her stomach, causing her to lurch in pain. She rose more quickly than he would have anticipated in an attempt to run but he snatched her hair quickly, laughing maniacally. She knocked him in the head with her other elbow and he reacted with a blow to her face, the bruise appearing almost instantly across her cheek and eye. He got too cocky, it had always been his problem, and in a split second he lost her, her heels carrying her fast down the street. He was on her trail in seconds and withdrew his second pistol, aiming and firing quickly as she rushed to a nearby street lamp where he could no longer follow. If she saw his face at all, she'd find him and have her special MI6 bastards eliminate him. The first shot struck her arm and the second tore into her shoulder, making him think maybe he had her at long last. He grinned his yellow smile into the dark, deciding to lurk in the alleys until she passed out from the pain and blood loss.

Babe was stumbling and felt the warm blood running down her back and arm. She was an operative to the Crown, a killer and formally trained espionage spy and normally blood did not phase her. Her own blood? Well that was a completely different entity. She couldn't see much as her eye swelled shut and her heart beat began to slow, but she was nearly positive she was on Baker Street. She knew this city like the back of her hand and even bloodied and broken she could navigate. She was furious she had let her guard down, knowing for weeks someone had been following her but, too arrogant to attack him first. Her breathing became shallow and panicked and she couldn't calm herself this time. The crack in her ribs was blindingly painful, the blood loss seeming to speed up, or perhaps it was mere panic causing her to think so. In a matter of minutes she found a dimly lit stoop and decided it might be best to play mugged and phone the department. Just as her feet came near the bottom step the blackness ensued and she felt the current of pain and sickness pulling her down and just as she tried to catch herself, her head crashed into the concrete of the second step.

John Watson's date had gone quite terribly and he was incredibly relieved it was over. It seemed since he came back from the war, London somehow filled itself with pretty faces all daft in the brains. Sure, he wanted a woman's touch and could have had it tonight considering he wasn't a bad looking bloke, but was it too much to ask for a woman with a sense of humor? Perhaps his particular brand of humor was too dark. He was spending too much time with Sherlock. He pulled out his keys and gazed at the mobile in his other hand noting it was much later than he realized, but he had enjoyed his stop by the Pub after his failed meet up with the shop girl. It was quiet on Baker Street tonight which was a welcome reprieve. He was so busy checking the hits on the site where he blogged about their mysteries that he almost missed a crumpled form lying on their steps. John paused a long moment, his lips pressing into a hard line as he sighed and assumed it was another corpse on Baker St's stoop. Sherlock would be positively delighted. A breath revealed it was alive and he then jumped to the next conclusion: this was just a drunk the Yard had yet to pick off. He bent to awaken the form and as he touched the body's arm his hand jerked back covered in warm blood. He hit his knees to turn the form ever so slightly and realized it was a woman in a red dress, badly beaten and bleeding. He slammed his phone into his pocket and jumped to his feet, flung his key into the door, shouting up the stairs.

"Sherlock! Come here please!".  


He was thinking, in the middle of trying to make his mark on a serial killer with his fingers steeped before him. It was so simple and yet he needed ample evidence to be sure Scotland Yard put this man under lock and key. John's shouts pulled him from his reverie and excited him. Running his long fingered hands together he took off down the stairs buttoning his blazer as his long legs descended to the opened front door, the knocker still slightly off canter. Sherlock's eyes lit with delight at the sight of the form lying on the stair, John trying to lift the woman clearly badly damaged from something... or someone.

"Oh delightful!" he said in true Sherlock fashion, excitement in the face of brutality, his teeth gleaming in the dark.

"A little help, Sherlock. We need to call an ambulance." John said out of breath, his leg bothering him at the effort to lift what should have been a light girl. She was small in many ways and not so small in others he noted as her dress clung to her like a second skin.

"She's mumbling something, John." he said, pointing and grinning, finding his boredom at last relieved.

"Just. Help. Me! We need to figure out how she got here and she needs medical attention!" he shouted exasperated. Sherlock snapped to it and grabbed the other arm, hearing a low almost silent groan from her throat.

Gently, they laid her on the couch in the sitting room and John began trying to look the woman over while Sherlock paced.

"This is bad. We should really get her to Bart's." John stated assessing the gash on her arm and forehead and noting the open wound in her shoulder, the skin growing dark from fighting the infection the bullet wrought, "Possibly just an abusive husband." John muttered nervously.

"N-no." the woman mumbled.

Babe finally forced herself to come to despite the spinning of the room, the ringing in her ears and pain shooting through every inch of her body. She eased up on her elbows and tried to focus on the two men in the room, particularly the one looking at her in a manner of great concern. She was determined not to go to the ER or any hospital for that matter. Mycroft would have her arse for it if she did. Operatives sucked it up, every time, or they died. There was no in between. If you weren't dying you were going to have to handle things yourself and Babe intended to do just that. She was in immense pain but learned a long time ago you never cry out, lest your enemies see you weak or hear you trying to make an escape.

"I... no hospital." she mumbled, trying to find her bearings and make some sense, her own voice hurting her head.

"Look, I'm a Doctor. You may have a concussion and there's a bullet in your shoulder. It needs stitching that tear in your arm there." he said pointing to her various serious injuries, losing his patience with the stubborn creature. Regardless if she was letting her husband do this to her, he wanted to help. That was what he and Sherlock did.

She eased up further and tried to pull off her heels, wincing at the shift in her rib cage where that bastard had kicked her. Her teeth gritted as she pulled one broken heels from her foot.

"You forgot my cracked ribs." she winced wryly, her voice sounding far away in her own ears.

Babe knew she couldn't reveal too much but, if he was really a Doctor then he would have a medical kit around the flat and she could stitch herself up well enough to get to her own place. The other gentleman sat in front of the fireplace in his chair and then stood again to make his way into the terribly messy kitchen.

"I don't have a husband... and I c-can't... go to... a hospital." she said, her breaths sharp and painful, heaving as she tried to control her body and gain some semblance of a calm demeanor. Mind over matter.  


"Of course she doesn't. There's no wedding band, John, and while you're probably about to bring up an infidelity or perhaps no desire to wear such an article it is quite obvious by the cut and style of her dress she has never been married and a woman who looks that lovely intentionally would not forgo the flash and draw of wearing a band." the other man said. Babe actually felt her mouth pop open and was grateful to forget her pain if only for a split second. He was bloody brilliant, and that could be very dangerous, the man who saw too much.

"Medical kit? Scotch? Please?" she brought herself to say to the man kneeling before her. John hesitated a moment before taking off into the next room and leaving her alone with the other gentleman.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, gazing at her with narrowed silver eyes and his mouth a thin line, his eyes wandering over her to deduce all she was no doubt unconsciously revealing.

"Who are you?" Babe asked in that flirtatious way she was accustomed to speaking, quirking a blonde brow and wishing she hadn't as her head and eye throbbed ferociously.

"Considering you were beaten and bleeding on my flat steps I'm going to say you first." he said darkly, his voice rich and dark.

"Arabella Lockley. Everyone calls me Babe." she muttered as the other man returned with a bottle of Glen Moray and a brown bag with medical supplies. Kneeling in front of her on the floor, John began to take out several tools.

"John Watson." he introduced himself and pulled the stopper from the bottle. Babe took it and swallowed several mouthfuls before handing it back to him. This was going to be a very long night.


	3. Chapter 3

Her head was throbbing viciously, her arm was on fire and her shoulder felt like it was going to burst from the pain. The headache Babe felt was so intense it nearly over powered the pain in her cracked ribs and made her terribly nauseous. The man, John Watson, had such a kind demeanor and yet, she could tell he was a soldier previously, with a psychological leg wound and an incredible underlying darkness. Oddly, she wasn’t afraid in this moment. Perhaps, it was the head injury but she hadn’t even tried to begin to solve the mystery of her attacker. Not that she wasn’t used to having enemies, she was what she was with reason.

“You’ll have to take off your dress. I’ll grab you some clothes of mine.” John said, quickly returning with a jumper and a pair of boxer shorts. She was taken by his kind eyes, fair hair and lovely face but quickly chalked it up to her damaged head. He helped Babe stand and slowly she turned her back to him allowing him to untie the black lace neck of the dress and unzip the lower back portion, his hands gentle and kind, the first time someone had ever undressed her without trying to caress her skin. The dress slid down and she stood in only a black lace bra and panties. She had never been ashamed of her body, but in this moment, she inexplicably cared what this man thought of her provocative under things and eased the shorts up over her legs and provocative under garment.

“Just sit and I’ll dig the bullet from your shoulder.” He said, noting the purple color spreading around the hole, and she did as he asked facing the wall beside them. He eased down beside her and Sherlock suddenly stood.

“I’m going out. Perhaps I can peruse the streets for Ms. Lockley’s assailant. Did you see what he looked like?” he asked firmly.

"N-no. He was very quick and he attacked me from behind. He would not chase me as far as the street lamps either. I didn't see where he went." He nodded and with that descended the stairs. John reached around her and passed her the scotch bottle, “I don’t have any pain killers. Or even topical numbing agents. You might want that. This is going to hurt.” He said. Babe let out a short laugh that held no humor. The amount of pain was not important; she had been trained to be silent in these situations, or die. And one never forgot that kind of training, not as long as they lived.

John was taken aback as he tried to gently dig his medical pliers into the soft skin of her shoulder and find the bullet there. Even as steady as he was, having done this hundreds of times he knew the pain. He'd had a bullet dug from his shoulder in Afghanistan himself. She did not even flinch, did not scream or cry. He’d heard soldiers, large men, squeal like babies on the field and in the tents when bullets were dug from their flesh, and yet this woman sat here steadying her breathing, eyes clenched shut as she bit her lip ferociously. He himself had cried out in pain when his was removed, but not her. Once he had it out, he sterilized the wound site with alcohol and bandaged it quickly. Still, not even a hiss from her. Then he knelt on the floor in front of her and handed her the sweater, noticing the chills dotting her skin and knowing she was cold from all of the blood she had lost and possibly from the mounting fear she felt trying to escape with her life.

“I can just roll up the sleeve to stitch up your arm.” He said, giving her a sad sympathetic smile. John didn’t know why, but something in those big blue eyes had him melting, feeling his heart constrict at the pain she must be feeling, and wanting desperately for Sherlock and himself to find the man that hurt this woman. She stayed quiet again as he pulled the sutures through the gash and pulled the skin back together, wrapping it tightly in gauze and wanting to hold her, protect her. Wearing his clothes he realized how small she was, and he himself was not a very large man. She was maybe three or four inches shorter than him, thin with seductive curves barely filling out the sweater, hair that was clearly gorgeous and golden when not matted from someone yanking her by it. Aside from the swelling of her cheek and the bruise forming at her eye she was really quite beautiful.

Babe felt sleep pulling her under and her eyes fluttered as she leaned to the side that hadn’t been struck with bullets, leaning against the arm of the couch. She should stay awake, her concussion could kill her if she didn’t or worst, she could slip into a coma. She should try to leave and venture to Mayfair, try to find out what had happened to Fairchild, her driver. Yet the feeling of comfort and safety she felt in this room, in the flat with the black and gray damask wall, erased every bit of sense she had, because even the strange tall man had the same honest eyes as Dr. John Watson. He tenderly brushed a curl from her temple,his kind blue eyes filled with worry, and began bandaging her head. It unnerved him her silence, the way she did not show her obvious pain, other than the way her eyes squinted shut and her arm remained tucked across her broken ribs. She looked like a broken angel, a fallen thing that had gotten involved with something far beyond her understanding or means. Instinctively he wanted to protect her, because whatever had caused her this had to be terribly, incredibly bad.

“You can sleep. I know you’re worried about the concussion but I’ll monitor your breathing. I don't think it's much worst than a bump.” He said inspecting the dilating of her pupils, touching her cheek and giving Babe a kind smile. She merely nodded, and in seconds she allowed herself to be taken by the strong tide of sleep, bringing her in and letting darkness take over.

“Did you find anything?” John asked when Sherlock returned, sitting by the fireplace and watching her lay there so sweetly.

“Nothing. Of course. Sorry to have missed an opportunity to see you actually practice medicine." he said with his usual mocking arrogance.

John rolled his eyes, knowing Sherlock was referring to his meager work at the clinic, “She didn’t make a sound. I’ve heard grown men scream as shrapnel and bullets were dislodged from their body. I... I even cried out.” He whispered, completely stunned still. This actually captured Sherlock’s attention then, knowing John spoke the truth as usual and he seemed rather shaken at his own findings.

“You should go to sleep, John.” Sherlock said, pulling out the newspaper and reading it over, realizing the exhaustion in his friends posture and face.

“I need to watch her. She’s had severe head trauma and needs to keep breathing. I need to make sure she doesn’t become comatose.” He said rubbing his eyes.

“Oh I can do that. I’m not tired anyway.” He stated firmly. John knew Sherlock didn’t go out of his way for many, and his shift at the clinic was mere hours away so he stood and said, “Just come get me if something happens.” He had a feeling his mysterious friend was up to something but found himself unsure of what exactly it was. Shaking his head he made his way down the short hallway and his bedroom door clicked shut.

Moments passed before Sherlock finally stood to rifle through the woman’s clutch that lay forgotten by the chaise. Inside he found nothing useful but a cell phone that had long since been dead and a tube of lipstick. Further investigation of a secret compartment in the bag revealed a discreetly stored revolver and a pack of cigarettes, and he instantly grinned at the joy of his find. He peeked around the wall to ensure John was long since passed out and lit it, slowly inhaling the nicotine he had been craving for weeks. Then, he looked over at Ms. Arabella “Babe” Lockley in an effort to sum up her origin, her story as one might call it. As he stared he found himself getting rather bored, dressed in John’s clothes he was limited by what he could read. She was wealthy in a quiet way, her fingers were manicured, however, the polish she chose was champagne colored, discreet yet decorative. Her hair was natural and quite lovely, obviously a gift from one of her parents presumably her mother; but the olive skin seemed a more dominant trait which he guessed was from her Italian father. He deduced Italian, recalling the blue of her eyes and deciding had her skin been colored by another ethnicity she would have had a darker eye color such as brown. Nothing exciting to reveal and he found himself irritated.

His luck changed however, when a pitiful whimper escaped her and her brow furrowed, her eyes squinted shut tighter. Sherlock knelt down to the couch to peer into her face and noticed her ruby, plush lips were quivering. She was trying to mumble something. If only he could interrogate everyone in their sleep, no walls erected or lies to waste his time with that he would never believe anyway. Babe was physically shaking and trembling before him, and he felt an odd twisting in his chest, irritating and uncomfortable. He tenderly placed his hand where hers was balled into a fist near her abdomen and whispered, “Tell me. What is it you fear?”.

“M-Mycroft.” She mumbled.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock felt his stomach hit the floor. His overpaid, over pompous, meddling brother had somehow managed to put the fear of God in this woman. Yes, her fear he recognized as genuine and she did not appear to be easily shaken, judging by the way John marveled at her quiet strength. Yet, somehow his arrogant brother whom never dirtied his own hands, had made her quiver in fear, he was witnessing it right now. Perhaps it was the strong disdain he felt for Mycroft but, he decided to take the case, whatever it was that had brought harm to this creature he would rectify it. Starting by heading to Mycroft’s office first thing in the morning. For now, he had landed the job of watching their new house guest sleep. In retrospect it wasn’t quite the end of the world, if seemingly a waste of time. This tiny woman was not only beautiful, she was fascinating, squirming and curling in her sleep, brows furrowing and soft mumbling and groans escaping her beautiful throat. What bothered him the most is he found himself… worrying about her? Was that the right word? John would have a word for it, of course, but he would romanticize the description.

Mycroft slammed his phone down and ran his fingers across his brows, his frustration mounting. He quickly discovered that his best operative had been attacked as well as her driver. The Bentley had been uncovered, Fairchild taken to the morgue but, Babe was still missing. He had attempted to track her by her mobile device but it seemed she was beyond his reach as the signal had died shortly after midnight. The question remained whether or not he should have his little brother try to find her. He’d sure hate to waste Sherlock’s time searching for a corpse, and in the meantime he needed to focus on the assailant and what their motive was. Though, he had little to go on and as far as enemies went Babe’s list was extensive considering how useful she had proven to be in her field. A man wielding a gun trained for MI6 was lethal, but a woman with eye lashes to flutter and a body made for sin was another level of deadly.

At that moment, the one and only Sherlock graced his office with his presence, storming through the door and in his low voice demanding, “Who is she?” very softly. He comically mused that his thoughts could conjure the detective at times, his God complex inflated a notch.

“Ah brother mine. Lovely to see you. Please have a seat and some tea.” He said, smiling smugly as always.

Sherlock unbuttoned his black suit jacket and sat across from him crossing his legs “A young woman was thrown onto my front door step last night and I want to know who is she.” He said firmly. So, Babe had sought refuge with his brother and his flat mate, he mused, knowing it was of course Babe. Arbordean's mansion wasn't far from Baker street, perhaps only a block or two. How interesting. No doubt the irony was not lost on him that his most dangerous weapon was carefully tucked away with his brother and flatmate, hiding from Mycroft. Yet, what had she told Sherlock? What had she said to him to bring him here? The girl was smarter than that, he himself had trained her better so how had he connected them? And the next question was why hadn’t she called in to report and give him the chip she had gathered the information on? After her tryst with Lord Arbordean, whom they suspected of illegally distributing Cambridge’s nuclear research to several Islamic extremists, she was to crack into his computer and send it immediately to Mycroft personally. He was after all the British Government itself.

“Ah Babe Lockley. I see she’s safe and sound. Although, it concerns me she did not check in last evening.” he said nonchalantly, bating Sherlock to give him more details. Although, he knew the moment he glanced at Sherlock’s fingers she had been at the flat on Baker Street, the nicotine freshly on his fingertips indicating he had taken a cigarette from her person, the color lighter as they were the French cigarettes with the pink elephant on them.

“Well it might interest you to know she was badly beaten. A bullet tore through her bicep, one lodged within her shoulder and several cracked ribs, just to name a few of her injuries.” Sherlock said, lifting the porcelain cup to his lips. Mycroft simply blinked complacently and then stood from his desk circling the desk. He donned his hat from the butler, grabbed his umbrella he simply couldn't travel without, and opened his office door.

“Shall we?” he asked and after Sherlock returned his cup to the saucer he joined his brother to head to Baker Street so Mycroft could collect his little toy.

Back at Baker Street, after correcting the door knocker upon entering, Mycroft looked down at Babe with disdain and boredom. Someone had certainly made a mess of her pretty face and body. Olive turned to purple and blue, ghastly men's clothing donning her body, a bandage on her forehead. It would be a while before she could work again and that put a pause on their plans to catch the Corsica in action. Displeasure pulled down the corners of his mouth at the thought. He wanted that filth out of his country and city as quickly as possible, the French scumming up London again. The part of him he hated, the sickness deep inside called 'feeling' made him ache for her ever so slightly. Playing the icy bastard was never much fun, especially when Babe was involved, which was why he sent her away on long distant missions every chance he had. Now, in front of Sherlock he ensured he appeared as heartless and soulless as his younger brother and everyone else believed.

“Well, she will recover quickly. They always do. Once she’s well I will send her car to take her back to Mayfair. She’ll need to heal her face before she can do much work. Perhaps she can keep you company, brother mine.” He said and made his way towards the front door again. Sherlock was enraged, seeing the girl beaten, her bruises and pain probably worst now that her large amount of scotch would have worn off, and all his brother could worry about was how soon she could get back to doing his dirty work for him. He did not offer to send a car to take her to hospital, nothing. Just planned to leave her broken on Sherlock's couch.

“You whore her out for the Crown, another one of your assets. How old was she?” Sherlock asked, knowing damn well this girls troubled sleep reflected emotional scars going back at least a decade if not more.

“Language, brother. She was twelve, Sherlock. And I saved her life.” He answered mildly his shiny wing tipped shoe hitting the top stair.

“She’s frightened of you.” He said to him, dark and low and causing him to pause for only a moment. The mere statement wrought emotional hell through his mind.

Mycroft simply turned with a cynical smile, “I know. I broke her.” And with that he was gone.

Babe had felt his presence and jumped awake, smelling his cologne and feeling her heart thunder. Her mouth was painfully dry, the pain in her body throbbing with a new and stronger intensity and her open wounds felt irritated and inflamed, puffy beneath the bandages. She sat up gingerly, felt her head and world tilt and dry heaved into her hand. The sun's tilt in the sky indicated she had slept much of the morning away and she knew he would be furious she had yet to have reported. Her hands shook at the prospect of him seeing her in such a state, and she quickly attempted to stand. Sherlock caught her carefully by her arms and whispered, “I think you need some more rest.”. When her world steadied, she shook her head and began gathering her belongings, her bloody dress and clutch.

“I cannot thank you and Dr. Watson enough for your kindness. But I must go. I’m sorry.” And carrying her heels and dress she bolted from their home, and Sherlock watched as she hailed a cab to take her to her town house. The mystery of this tainted woman remaining unsolved.

Babe had done her very best to cover her aching face with foundation, her red lipstick covering her busted mouth and dressed herself in a tight fitting black dress with pointed toe yellow flats. It wasn’t easy, trying to hold her head up straight, to walk like the deadly seductress she was so she took a taxi to Mycroft’s office. She was let in immediately and delicately laid the envelope before him with the chip inside of it. He did not move at first, simply continued reading his paper, unknowingly steeling himself for how he was going to have to handle her.

“Shouldn’t you be resting, pet?” he asked, leaning back in his Italian leather chair, his fingers interlocking across his abdomen his eyes assessing her warily. All the layers of makeup didn't hide the hell she went through the night before. She was tired, in pain and scared, and all of this he read in those eyes alone, because her face was the perfect mask of a seductress and asset.

“I’m sorry. I r-really am. He was clever… a-and sneaky.” She stammered, tears welling in her eyes as she lost her words and bearings, just as she always did, knowing he was furious with her. Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh and walked to the mini bar in his office, pouring two fingers of scotch in each glass and handing hers over her shoulder, standing over her chair. A power play he had used on several occasions to ensure she felt small and beneath him. He swallowed the scotch quickly and hoped his lack of breakfast that morning would make it work more expeditiously at numbing his inner turmoil.

“Please do not do that. Your sniveling is most unbecoming.” He said, administering the first verbal slap and letting her know he was in no mood to let her slip up be forgotten, “He was following you for months and you did nothing to protect yourself. You deserved it.” And there was slap number two. Babe physically flinched under his gaze, the emotions warring inside of her far more painful than the beating she had taken evening last.

To numb the pain inside, she quickly swallowed the two fingers of scotch, Macallan single malt, and set the glass on his desk.

“I collected everything Arbordean had. Hopefully it is enough to indict him.” She said, changing the subject and struggling to re straighten her spine against the shifting of her broken ribs, her breath shortening but silent.

“Yes well I know you’d love a pat on the head and told what a good little girl you’ve been but it will never happen, Babe. We must now discuss what happens to you next.” He said, returning to his seat across from her, knowing she was now mentally breaking herself down inside and torturing herself over letting herself be attacked and it was no longer necessary to use his standing tactic to undermine her.

“What do you mean?” she asked, watery blue eyes searching his for mercy.

“Well, you’re obsolete looking like a battered common woman. I think it’s best you lie low for a while, perhaps work on a more domestic level where your skills could prove more useful than your looks, for once. The two gentlemen you encountered on Baker Street are colleagues of mine. Detectives of sorts. I think you can be of use to them fighting London crime in the dredges.” He said factually.

“Until I’m healed? Then I can go back on the Corsica operation?” she asked pleadingly, wanting desperately to stop the men who nearly drove her to suicide fourteen years ago.He had to turn to look out of his floor to ceiling window, no longer able to stand the sight of her so weak and destroyed.

“We’ll see. Good day, Ms. Lockley.” He said, and did not relax his stance, let the weariness seep into his bones until he heard her silent footsteps vanish and the door click softly closed. He poured another glass and threw it back quickly.


	5. Chapter 5

Babe knew it was sick and twisted what she felt for him, knew how much it said about her that she could feel what she did after everything he condoned be done to her. He entered a room and her stomach hit the floor, her heart thundered harshly, her chest tightened, words failed her and her hands betrayed her with violent shakes. It was an incurable sickness, a fever in her blood and yet, she ran to him every time, could never stop herself from falling at his feet wanting desperately to prove herself as an operative, as a woman in his eyes. He barely ever even looked at her, not since that night eight years ago and every time he belittled her work ethic, it was an open slash to her heart. She spent the rest of her day at home, reading a silly book and trying desperately to rest and heal from her attack. At nightfall she took a long bath and when she emerged from her bathroom, her glass of scotch empty for the fourth time in the last half hour, she found her room had been filled with hundreds of white rose petals, floating over her comforter, down the hallway, all over the dresser and nightstands and covering every surface from the top of the stairs to her bedroom. On the table in the foyer down stairs sat a royal blue box and inside was a necklace made of platinum so delicate it was almost translucent, draping in a single chain down the middle and from it hung a solid black diamond, princess cut and so dark yet so bright in the dim light. She shut her eyes furiously and began shaking, wishing it was the first time he had done this, but it wasn't, and it would not be the last.

For six long years, she had been taught the art of seduction, sex, murder, eloquent conversation skills, manipulation, perfect memory, over fifty languages, and had gone through every form of torture that could be inflicted on her without damaging her body too terribly. The scars were meant to be emotional, not physical although her pain tolerance had to be elevated. He had checked in as frequently as he could, watching as she was starved, sleep deprived, beaten until she did not scream or cry out and every trace of hope had fled her eyes. Arabella "Babe" Lockley had been broken, he had witnessed the moment in which she became a person even she did not recognize, the true moment when she was stripped of hope and every nerve inside of her was raw, exposed and completely frayed and then she was re born with a new pet name and she would be the greatest seductress and asset the Crown had in a long while. Her reports had been more than promising, and once she cracked she was even easier to rebuild, the perfect living breathing weapon. Once she had graduated at the age of eighteen, the sterilization ceremony was performed and it was time for the next part of her initiation. She would begin work immediately after the final step, traveling to Russia and inserting herself in the Bratva in an attempt to infiltrate and unearth the secrets that kept them open for business for the last century. She was ready for the task he was told, once she completed the very last lesson in her training.

Mycroft heard the front door open from his study as his butler let her in, her heels softly clicking on the marble floors as she was escorted to his bedroom. He had made sure that when it came time for this last lesson, he would be the one to teach it to her. He was a cold bastard, could never be otherwise but he would give her at least this, he would make sure someone touched her in a way that wasn't with cruel intent and that when she gave herself to other men, she at least could think of this night. He would never admit to the reason he secretly knew he could not let anyone else handle this portion of her training, but deep inside he knew, and that terribly uncomfortable sensation of "feeling" tried to escape him. It made him sick to think of any of his colleagues in intelligence touching her and using her as the Crown was about to do. It hadn't cost him much, men like Mycroft spoke and whatever they wanted was handed over or there were consequences. He wished, sometimes he had a soul, was anyone but who he was, but wishes were for children and stupid, common people so far out of touch with reality and not for the most intelligent man in England.

In the bedroom Babe found candles lit on the nightstands and the dresser and a french lace robe draped across the bed that hid very little, but was surprised at the notion he had bought her a gift. No one told her what to expect, just what she was expected to do. Carefully she changed, helped herself to a glass of his Macalan single malt and just as she was taught to, draped herself across the occasional chair in the corner of the room waiting, looking as sensual as possible. When he finally came through the door, he leaned artfully against the back of it once it was closed and rubbed his fingers across his forehead in exhaustion, looking troubled and tormented and then he looked up at the dove trapped in his bedroom. She was breathtaking in the ivory wrap, her long blonde hair draped over one shoulder, long dark lashes blinking up at him over wide blue eyes, her shoulder exposed by the looseness of the opening in the robe, the olive of her skin a dark tan contrast against the ivory lace. The orphan daughter of the whore had become a woman, a beautiful creature as deadly as she was sensual and he nearly swallowed his tongue when he noticed the loss of innocence in her perfect round eyes.

"You know the last part, I assume?" Mycroft asked, his voice more controlled than he felt, his damned weakness leaking through in this moment and he had to remind himself to shut off. Perhaps, he could let himself bleed for just the next hour, just long enough to ease her passing into the rest of her life and then he could tourniquet the wound and carry on letting that part of himself shrivel and die off. She smiled coyly and rose from the chair, short and muscular legs carrying her over to him as she began undoing his tie, blinking those navy eyes up into his, biting her lip and nodding her head. He stopped her by placing a hand on her cheek and running it down the curve against it cupping her chin. His face was like stone, the look of complacency and unfeeling perfectly in place and Babe could not help the spasm in her breathing as he leaned in and kissed her with the tenderness of a man kissing his virgin bride on their wedding night. She kissed him back expertly, just as she had been taught, teasing yet coercive, sweetly yet, promising of carnal delight. He steadied himself as he reached for her golden curls to run his fingers through the silky strands and backed her against the bed, whilst her tiny soft fingers undid his vest and shirt. He had never gone so slowly, never been so gentle, but with her heartbeat against his chest like the beating of frantic wings he could not bring himself to not be. He found himself trying to worship her every curve, never letting his lips leave hers and giving more of himself to her when his body entered hers than he ever had to another woman. It was for the first and last time in his life. Sure, she was performing exactly as she had been told, making love to him in every way every man hoped for, pleasing him and worshiping his body like it was Saint Catherine's holy place, but beneath the glass over her eyes, the paint on her face he would always feel that panicked heartbeat against his bare skin, burning him like a brand. He was determined that for just this one hour he would show her everything he could never say and everything he would never do again, like feel.

When he finished, sliding out of her and laying on his back, the pain of emotions kept bleeding from his insides and he was feeling so much relief and so much pain all at once. When she leisurely attempted to lay her leg over his and bask in the afterglow he knew she was faking, he quickly stood knowing any post coital coddling would only string her along. She had been a virgin afterall, and taking that from a girl meant unavoidable attachment that she would feel for years. He put on his robe and slippers and went to pour himself a drink. She watched him and then when he turned she was looking down at her hands as she covered her wonderful naked body with the sheet and stood to slide the short black cocktail dress back on. She slid back into her heels and stepped out onto his balcony to light a cigarette, blowing vanilla smoke into the frosty night air, the angel already dirtied by the cold world she was being thrown into. Her hands stilled themselves immediately once he joined her and lit a cigarette of his own, hiding whatever vulnerability or confusion she felt at what they had just done. They were both silent for a long moment as he stared at her face, trying to find a break in her facade. She never faltered and he knew this was the last good thing he would do for her. After tonight, she would be the soiled dove and a bit of sentiment peeked through as he hoped to always remember her just like this, cheeks rosy and eyes bright, young and still so naive despite her harsh lessons. The car arrived, his butler saw her out and she would never know how Mycroft watched her leaving from his bedroom balcony, nor that he had a special agent watching her house that night and he knew that once she was inside her foyer she melted into a sobbing puddle on the floor. Destroyed again.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Babe awoke with her pain becoming a low dull after the hot shower she took and after the glass of scotch she threw back and so, she dressed in some dark jeans, a white button down, black blazer and heels. In the breakfast room she found the housekeeper had already prepared her breakfast of an English muffin, fruit and black coffee. She read the morning paper noting the recent increase in certain stocks and then grabbed her Burberry briefcase, revolver, and found a driver waiting on the curb outside of her home. Rain fell and she paused under the alcove of the small porch. Well, he hadn’t taken as long as she had anticipated assigning a new driver, which meant Fairchild was dead. The sting nearly brought her pain and tears to her face but she tucked it away instantly, knowing it was unacceptable to mourn the loss of anyone he placed in her life. She wasn't allowed to become attached.

“Good Morning, Madame Lockley. I am to take you to 221 B Baker Street.” the driver said. She eased inside when he pulled open the door to her new town car, a country green jaguar. She nodded, realizing Mycroft had arranged this for her to ensure she did not force herself back into the Corsica mission. It stung, making her feel awful at how banged up she was and that she was no good in such a state. She never pretended to misunderstand her worth, pretty face, hourglass figure, blonde and blue eyed, her beauty was what made her an asset to them, without those features he would have never given her the position she held. Despite the rain she pulled on her cat eye shades and eased into the backseat, hoping to hide the hurt in her eyes and disguise the bruise for a little while, feeling as if it was the first thing everyone saw. It was a long ride in the pouring rain, traffic was heavy, but once there she let herself out of the car before her driver could even get out and approached the door, knocking softly.

“Ah, Ms. Lockley. What a… surprise?” John said, furrowing his brows at the sunglasses she wore in the pouring rain and trying to smile at her. His eyes were just as kind as she remembered, and she found he was a couple of inches taller than her, his stance almost protective but not dominating.

“Dr. Watson, I’m here to help you. I want to repay you for your kindness.” She said flashing him her beautiful white smile at his kind sky blue eyes and demeanor.  


“Well why don’t you come in for a cuppa?” he said grinning and held the door open for her to come in from the rain, extending his arm inside of the hallway. She immediately felt the warm comfort she had felt the other night in this place, and eased the sunglasses from her face and inside of her Burberry. John noticed the bruise was still dark and angry, pressing through the foundation she had used, but as a whole she seemed to be healing nicely. Up the stairs he made tea and she took a seat in Sherlock's black leather chair before the fire. He brought her a tea cup on a saucer and she took it gingerly, taking a small sip and smiling at him.

“Mycroft sent you.” He stated causing a jolt in Babe’s hands before she set the cup on the table. John then saw what Sherlock had been trying to tell him, that this woman was very much afraid of the elder Holmes brother. Babe wasn't surprised that Mycroft had filled Sherlock's flat mate in on being with them on cases, they would need to be prepped for her arrival. It had also only been the two of them for so long, she would surely not be welcome at first no matter her skill-set and brilliant mind.

“Sherlock doesn’t know Mycroft wants you working here for him. And we aren't to tell him. For some reason Sherlock is under the impression his brother is his arch nemesis and their relationship is complicated.” John said, watching her carefully as he drank his tea.

“Brother?” she asked. Then, the thread of reality snapped and she quickly filed through everything in her mind she knew of him. It all seemed perfectly clear when she remembered the file she had recently read on Jim Moriarty, the psychopath out to destroy Sherlock. He had also been proven a target Babe would never strike; her particular abilities would get nothing out of him. So while she healed and searched for her own assailant from that night, Mycroft had sent her to Baker Street and to look after the only thing in this world he loved, his brother. She shook her head and let out an exasperated laugh.

“Moriarty, of course will pose a threat.” She said, lifting her saucer and cup again, relaxing her spine as she sunk into the chair cushions. She could not explain why, but this place was safe, comfortable and she didn’t have to be a seductress.

“So, Ms. Lockey, why don’t you let me check your wounds? Make sure everything is healing properly.” John said, leaning forward and rubbing his palms together.  


“You’ve done so fabulously putting me back together, Dr. Watson. I don't think that's necessary.” She said sweetly, pulling herself from the chair and walking to gaze out the window facing Baker Street.

“Please, just call me John. And I just wanted to follow up on my mysterious patient.” He said smiling. She turned to him and smiled brightly, then crossed the room, and carefully unbuttoned her blazer. She winced immediately at the shift of her body, her ribs pinching to remind her they were badly broken. Carefully, John rolled up her sleeve, noting the puffiness beneath the bandage on her bicep, and helped her lower the button down from her shoulders and re bandaged the hole in her shoulder, still looking painful and fevered. 

"The ribs will take the longest to heal honestly." he said as he made the dressing for her wound.

"I think you'll survive." he said jokingly and Babe's face fell as she thought about how easy it would have been to let death take her, what a relief it would be, no longer pretending to be numb and cold when it became her reality.

In that moment, Sherlock came in the door muttering to himself and instantly knowing the tainted woman was back. He smelled her Chanel Mademoiselle perfume and strawberry shampoo as soon as he hit the front stoop. As he ascended the stairs he found she was pulling her blazer back on and smiled kindly, naturally and not like she had been taught to. Sherlock was not ready to see her beauty again, the dark grey of the sky behind her a contrast to her beautiful golden halo of curls, framing that lovely face with a bruise still marring the olive of her skin and bright midnight eyes blinking at him. He could still see the torment in her eyes, the pain she thought she was masking.

“What are you doing here, Ms. Lockley?” he asked, in usual and callous Sherlock manner. He was so much like his brother it was amazing to her, speaking bluntly and honestly at all times, nothing ever sugar coated.

“Please, call me Babe. And I want to thank you and John for your assistance the other night. I think I can help with your cases.” She said gingerly placing her hands in her blazer pockets. Sherlock thought it was odd she had returned so quickly, but if she wanted to work with him and John then there had to be a reason. Perhaps she was hoping to get away from being the Crown’s Asset, and if that meant stealing her from Mycroft he would do it in a hurry. He would never agree with his brother’s awful little program where he took young orphans and turned them into tools, dehumanizing young girls after promising them pretty clothes, well-mannered life and a home. He also could not resist the temptation at the prospect of uncovering Ms. Lockley’s secrets, and would not soon forget the way she trembled Mycroft’s name in her sleep, in fear.


	7. Chapter 7

The first week was gone before she knew it, then the first month and suddenly it was fall and then winter. Babe had made herself completely at home on Baker Street, sleeping on the couch despite John’s insistence that she take his bed and he take the couch instead, working with Lestrade in Scotland Yard and John and Sherlock; and all the while keeping close tabs on Jim Moriarty. His next move would be just as unpredictable and dangerous as the bomb incident at the swimming pool. It had shaken her and Sherlock immensely, having almost watched John be blown to pieces before their very eyes. She would never forget the straight line of his mouth, the unshed tears in John's eyes as he looked at her and then Sherlock. It did not take her but a day or two after she began working with them to realize that John was the only person in the world Sherlock truly loved. Aside from Mycroft of course, but she hadn't entirely decided if that relationship could be called love. They were the best of friends, John and Sherlock, and it made her happy to see them working together, bickering and pushing each other’s buttons relentlessly in the flat. Two lonely people, who found a perfect companionship, based on nothing more than a love for murder cases, a warm fire and one another. It was not sexual nor based on what one could give the other, just plain and absolute love. Babe found herself transfixed with it, honored to see such a thing in its purest form during those long hours helping them piece together evidence.

One night, John went out on one of his usual dates, the poor man trying to find a girlfriend so the assumption he and Sherlock were gay could be laid to rest. Sherlock sat in his chair gazing into the fire hearth as Babe read through her new updates on a particular serial killer imitating London's once infamous Jack the Ripper. Her access to several traffic light cameras and various other security devices was going to give them the edge they needed to have the culprit locked away for good. She was watching him through a reliable MI6 co-agent at one of the many flat's he frequented. Moriarty had been uncharacteristically quiet in his workings and disappeared from Babe's radar, not a single contact of hers having spotted him for several weeks.

“Just one.” He pleaded adorably, his gaze fixating on her face, the sharp lines of his cheeks lit by the fire. She didn't even look up from her work.

“No, Sherlock.” Babe huffed, knowing he was bored and couldn’t stand it. He had of course already solved the case, but only hard evidence was going to put the man in jail.

“You have a whole box. It could be our secret.” He grinned mischievously, wishing she would look at him so she could melt at his request. He'd grown rather fond of her vanilla pink elephant cigarettes.

“John said no and that we both need to quit. And he will know, he always does. Remember the last time we got caught? He reprimanded us like two errant teens. For a small man he has some serious fury. No thank you.” She stated, engrossing herself further into the information, and thinking of how lovely a cigarette did sound since she was under immense pressure to protect Sherlock. She didn’t remember when she quit, but the pack in her Burberry had definitely been unopened since she bought it a long while back, perhaps not since the summer.

“I know you’re working for him.” Sherlock said to her, his eyes locked on the top of her head bent over the tablet in her lap.

“Who?” she asked distractedly trying to solve the puzzle of the one evil Jack the new Ripper and where he was possibly storing the bodies of his victims.

“Mycroft.” He said and she jerked, suddenly the device tumbled out of her trembling hands. It had been months since she had heard from him, and she had been so busy with the cases and Moriarty, she found she comfortably forgot what she really was for a moment. Her perfect memory had become so useful on Baker Street and to Scotland Yard, her determination and passion for justice making John and Sherlock remember what they really did all of this for. As she reached to grab it from the floor, he touched her hand and she looked into his handsome face and dark eyes. Her breath hitched and she paused, transfixed by the beauty of Sherlock. He was a complete enigma, masculine but hardly a man at all in so many ways. He had a sharp jaw and cheeks, narrow silver eyes, dark curly hair and yet, he never went on dates like John, never popped down to the pub for a brew. He played his violin, sulked. He'd never look at a man nor even a woman with even the slightest bit of emotional or sexual interest.

“You don’t have to be afraid of him.” He whispered, his eyes searching hers. She quickly flicked her gaze to the right, knowing he was reading her that second and hoping it would appear as merely a sign of irritation. He knew better, she was left handed; she looked to her right to avoid contact, to avoid him from seeing the flicker of emotions in her eyes. A clever tactic he had to admit, and it would work famously on someone who did not know her. But, he had done nothing but observe her in sleep and in wakefulness when she snoozed on the couch, noticed every little move and gesture and saw years of poise and grace, sex and mastery of conversation in grained into her beautiful little head and inside she was completely falling apart, an emotional mess. She was saved from trying to respond when John came strolling up the stairs from his night out. The two quickly jumped apart and Babe gathered her things, texting her new driver Hartford and gathering her briefcase holding her pistol and spare clothes she constantly had packed since she often found herself sleeping here.  


"Where are you off to?" John asked, knowing Sherlock had to have said something, she looked upset. He didn't like it one bit.

“The snow is getting heavy, I better get home. Stay warm, my handsome gents!” she said with a sweet smile and cheerful wave.

“We’ll see you next week? You’re still coming to help Mrs. Hudson make Christmas breakfast?” John asked happily, delighting in the way she smiled when he asked, the way her eyes always looked at him with admiration and sweetness.

“Ofcourse.” She and Sherlock answered at the same time, and with a light laugh she descended the stairs, stopping to give the Landlady a peck on the cheek. She wasn’t too excited at the prospect of returning to her house, because as of late, that was all it had become. It was just a house. But, that flat with John and Sherlock, with Mrs. Hudson and the weird body parts in the fridge and the make shift lab in the kitchen, the sounds of Sherlock’s violin lulling her to sleep, that place was her home. Sherlock saw too much; saw straight into her soul whenever he held eye contact with her. It was unnerving and dangerous to her mission and she remained fearful she might let something slip one night in her sleep.

Hartford let her out and when she entered the foyer, she heard the classic popping sounds of her vinyl crackling out her favorite Johnny Cash album, live from Folsom Prison, and propped against the wall in the foyer was an all too familiar umbrella. Babe set her briefcase down as quietly as she could even though she knew he had already heard her come in. She did not go straight to the sitting room, but instead went over to the bar adjacent the kitchen and pulled out a vintage red wine, one of her best bottles and hoping that was what he would be in the mood for. She poured two wide glasses and gingerly kicked off her boots, leaving her in only her black, tight turtleneck sweater dress and burgundy knee high socks.

Mycroft was facing the fire, and she touched his forearm, smiled when his eyes met hers and passed him the glass. He merely stared into her eyes a moment, his face completely blank of an expression, just as it always was looking down at her. She was still so tiny after all of these years, only five two and hour glass shaped. It caught his eye that just barely peeking from beneath her foundation was the faded bruise from the man who viciously beat her that night and as he tilted his head in thought his brows furrowed. Something about Babe had changed since he last spoke with her, as if she had somehow become a different person. Her footsteps had been quick and light, her eyes were shiny and she had seemed so shocked to see him, as if she had forgotten about him. He knew it was positively absurd, she was irrevocably his, but perhaps she needed reminding. She took a drink of the wine and crossed one arm over her abdomen, looking away from his eyes and into the bright burning fire, a light grin playing at her lips.

“I keep a close watch on this heart of mine  
I keep my eyes wide open all the time…” Mr. Cash sang in the background and Mycroft took the glass from her hand, setting it gingerly next to his on the mantle. He did not ask, he never did, he just wrapped an arm around her back, his hand an appropriate distance from her rear like the perfect gentleman he was, and with the opposite hand in hers he led her across the plush carpet. She inhaled sharply at the romantic gesture and at how he managed to shock her. He knew every inch of her body, knew what she was feeling before she felt it, read her mind as easily as a children's book. He would always have that advantage over her, and while she would consistenly wonder what he might do or say to her next, he would continue to pull her in knowing her reaction, the same way he pulled her in for a dance and knew she would follow as instinctively as her will to live.

Babe was transfixed, the soft humming in his throat beautiful and touching as his eyes never left hers. It was a view she had nearly forgotten over the years, he rarely seemed to like looking at her. Especially when he was reprimanding her or destroying her verbally in his office. He was an incredible partner, naturally graceful in the way he was so confident in his tall, lean body, and he never had to count his steps or make sure he would not bump her into any furniture in the room by breaking eye contact. He was the perfect dancer and as he walked her across the room she found herself falling deeper into the hole, knowing she would die before she ever made it out of what she knew was the endless pit of Mycroft Holmes. He was silent and she did not try to speak, hating the idea of shattering the spell surrounding them in this beautiful moment. He earned a grin from her beautiful ruby lips as he dipped her expertly, blonde hair touching the floor and spun her, pulling her closer than he had when they started as the end of the song neared.

“I keep a close watch on this heart of mine. I keep my eyes wide open all the time. I keep the ends out for the tie that binds. Because you're mine, I walk the line.” He sang delicately and lowly in her ear, his English accent a sharp contrast to Johnny Cash's southern drawl and causing her heartbeat to flutter and her eyes to close as her fingers twisted in his hair, savoring the moment and wishing the song would play over and over so she could hear his voice again and again. Her stomach trembled against his vest, and in seconds he felt the flutter of her heartbeat like wings, taking him back to the night he had been the one to soil the little dove. He pulled away, made his way over to the wine glasses and then joined her to sit on the couch, looking at her beautifully flushed cheeks, the way her eyes were sparkling like the purest earth made sapphires and wishing he could let himself grin at her, hold her hand again and just sit in the silence of her beauty.


	8. Chapter 8

"You're happy, Babe." Mycroft said factually, swirling the wine in his glass to watch the legs fall down the insides, his expression ever complacent and almost bored. Tonight had been the first time he had looked at her in months, and as usual he had tilted her world on its axis with his presence alone. She was so mad for him she supposed that finally having him here in her home did make her happy. She curled her legs gracefully and tucked them beneath her, propping her elbow on the back of the couch and slid her cheek into her palm. She took another swallow of wine and looked at his profile, feeling her heart racing and mentally forcing her fingers to still themselves. He did this to her every time he was near or left a trace he had been in her home. Her reaction to him was instant like panic, pumping her so full of adrenaline she had to put in an overtime effort to hide it.

"On Baker Street. You're happy with John and Sherlock. You need to remember your training. Caring is not an advantage." he said condescendingly, like everything else he said when critiquing her work on a mission. She nodded vigorously and finished her glass, knowing her time with John and Sherlock had made her forget, made her feel like more than a shell and more than an asset. She had disappointed him and he was right. It had been ingrained into her brain once she survived the worst of her torture, her endurance drained from her and all will to live destroyed.  
All lives end.  
All hearts break.  
Caring is not an advantage. It was his mantra that had been a a part of her soul, her genetic makeup for a little over a decade.

"I need you back on the Corsica mission after Christmas. We believe one of their leaders is the man that killed your driver and assaulted you last summer. We have a plan." he said, standing and pacing in front of the fireplace.

"Wonderful. I'll start re conditioning my body with MMA and go to the range." she stated, hoping it was what he had wanted to hear and trying to be excited at the prospect of returning to her old life. She wasn't.

"We are going to have a private contractor hand you over to them, you will be wired and monitored of course, and we will track you down again once they sell you off. It's the clients that keep them open for business. Once you've gathered intel from their clientele list, we can black mail the dignitaries and royals in an effort to put the Corsica out of business. We will need until after the holidays to make it look authentic, so they do not suspect that you are connected." he said. She nodded, solemnly looking down at her hands, and in a second he was pulling her to her feet and pulling her close. He ran his fingers down the necklace he had left her at her throat, his nose close to her forehead, his hand on the curve of her lower spine.

"I have to go, Babe. I have to be in Parliament early." he whispered. She closed her eyes tight, the record blankly spinning in the background and her chest constricting painfully, the tenderness of his voice a direct contrast to the damage his words were enforcing.

"Just once tonight? It can be quick." she whispered against his chest, devastated at the prospect of him leaving again, after she had not heard from him for months. Mycroft Holmes was utterly incapable of love, but that didn't change the fact that she loved him beyond reason. She had learned though, that he did get lonely, even if he pretended he did not, and she would barter sex if it meant a few moments more with him. He tilted her chin to look deeply into her eyes, and cupped her cheek thumbing her ear so delicately. Then, his lips were pressing to hers, and even through the layers of his shirt, vest and top jacket he felt the erratic beating of her heart against his chest again and could not bring himself to keep this up tonight. His true intentions were coming through and she could not know he was a man inside. Mycroft pulled away, grabbed his coat and umbrella by the door without so much as a word.

Babe just stood there, in her empty house wondering why she'd left Baker Street for the hole she was convinced she had closed up over the last few months just to be reopened. He left her a broken mess again, pulling her in and making her feel loved and fulfilled and then taking it away just as quickly. He controlled her, offering her the only love she could ever know, expressing it and making her believe it and then showing his power over her by taking it away and leaving her feeling worthless. All of this for a man that left her hollow and full of such deep love it nearly brought her knees out from beneath her. She walked back to the bar, deciding it was a night for something stronger than red wine. Sitting on a bar stool on the center island of the kitchen, she killed the whole bottle of scotch, the Macalan single malt, the one she had drank on that first night with him, the one she'd tasted on his lips time and time again when he came to her for love. After an hour, she fell asleep on her arm, only to wake up on the next morning in her incredibly comfy bed, a glass of water and aspirin by her bedside table. He still took care of her, always watching and predicting her reactions, in his own small ways, like a ghost ever present in her shadow.


	9. Chapter 9

Although Babe felt the impending mission to stop the Corsica weighing on her chest, she woke up Christmas morning deciding to put it aside until after today. She dressed in a gold lace dress with a bell skirt and three quarter sleeves, black tights, and a burgundy infinite scarf wrapped about her neck. It would be a cold snowy morning considering the earliness of the hour. She pulled on her boots and wool pea coat to head to Baker Street. It was not yet six in the morning and a lovely snow fell, so she decided to walk rather than rouse her driver. She never walked but, she felt this morning she should, felt something calling her to step away from that house and that life and clear her mind, if only for a few hours. The air felt soft on her cheeks as the snow decorated her golden blonde curls and all around she could hear church bells and then total silence from the sleeping homes. Everyone still safely tucked into their beds, children waking soon to see their presents. It was a day she decided, to not think about or feel like an operative, but to just be a girl, heading to her friends' home for Christmas. The very thought lit a smile on her face.

She walked straight inside, finding Mrs. Hudson wrapped in an apron and already bustling around the kitchen. Babe deeply breathed in the warmth from the stove and the smell of bacon and fresh maple syrup. Mrs. Hudson greeted Babe with excitement and joy, hugging her tightly and getting all giddy when she flashed the first bottle of Don Perignon from her pocket to the landlady and then the second from the opposite pocket. Quickly, she threw off her coat and scarf and donned the new apron Mrs. Hudson had bought her for Christmas, a lovely flirty item looking a little like Mrs. Claus lingerie and quickly busied herself in the kitchen, opening a bottle of the champagne and mixing up mimosas while the two women continued cooking up a frenzy.

"Christmas! The snow's falling down!" Mrs. Hudson sang loudly to the radio she had on, an ancient thing crackling out carols for the morning.

"Christmas! I'm watching it fall!" Babe chorused back, feigning dramatics with her face and laughing as Mrs. Hudson was singing her sweet old heart out.

"You should be here with me!" Mrs. Hudson sang back.

"Baby please come home!" Babe sang falling to her knees on the kitchen floor and forgoing the pancake batter she had been mixing.

"They're singing deck the halls! But it's not like Christmas at all. I remember when you were here-" the two ladies were singing rather boisterously , when suddenly a throat clearing in the doorway had them turning quickly and laughing, a beautiful blush lighting Babe's cheeks more than usual as Mrs. Hudson continued to hum along. John stood there in his plaid pajama pants and t-shirt, sleep still heavy in his eyes, a wry smile on his face and his arms crossed in his normal casual stance. Babe ran to him and hugged him tight, placing a soft peck on his cheek, her fingers brushing the other side of his face affectionately, a tinge of stubble rubbing her fingers. He widened his eyes then, squeezing her back and then watching her back away, realizing she was dressed to look like a perfect Christmas angel, as if she should be shining from the top of a tree and found he was pleased he had woken up to the delightful sight of Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen with her, dancing and singing.

"Happy Christmas, John." she said and then let Mrs. Hudson squeeze him and extend the same greeting.

"So what's for breakfast then?" John asked rubbing his palms together and Mrs. Hudson began telling of the pancakes Babe was making and the champagne she had brought for that morning, not mentioning the wonderful bacon because the smell from it spoke for itself. He decided to go wake Sherlock and change before returning back down the stairs. He wasn't sure why but that morning he spent more time combing his light hair, shaving and putting on his cologne that he had bought for his various dates but never wore. Today seemed special and with her here, he wanted to look nice, touched she had come across town just to have Christmas breakfast with them. Sherlock even seemed to be in a happy mood, wearing a black suit as usual but donning a dark green tie instead of a gloomy black one. He followed John down the stairs and smiled at seeing his... family. Yes his family was happy and together on this special morning. Babe was in the kitchen and he realized how apart of them she had become, even Lestrade had fallen for the girl. She had become a staple in their lives, bringing out happiness in them even though they all knew she had a deep sadness underneath it all. John and Mrs. Hudson sat at the table, chatting away while Babe plated the eggs and Sherlock made his coffee, which consisted of pouring it into a clean mug without sugar or cream.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock." Babe said, taking the initiative and reaching for him, knowing he did not hug. He surprised her by wrapping an arm around her and holding her tight a moment, closing his eyes against her hair and placing one hand on the back of her head. Even John couldn't help gaping at the tenderness he saw from Sherlock. It was apparent to him then that the sociopath could love more than one person. She turned to finish plating the scrambled eggs whilst Sherlock leaned back against the counter in the cramped kitchen to take his first sip of coffee, casually attempting to sneak a strip of bacon from the plate that had not yet ventured to the table. She playfully smacked his hand away and a halfway grin pulled at his serious face. In minutes, the door opened with a flurry of cold wind and snow and they all chorused, "Happy Christmas!". Babe turned to greet Lestrade as he had said he would probably pop by for a bit and to take the plate of eggs to the table, when she saw the one man she had never expected. The plate tumbled from her hands and as Sherlock and her reached to stop it's fall, he touched her wrist and realized he had been completely and entirely wrong. The large size to which her pupils had dilated gave her away, as well as the brush against her wrist where he felt the hard and fast beat of her pulse and before the mask fell over her features she looked completely panicked. She couldn't look at either of them, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft as she began scooping the eggs from the floor, her lips and legs trembling. John quickly rushed over to begin helping her as her hands were trembling violently and she struggled to still them, the operative within her in an instant trying to surface.

"You're in love with him." Sherlock stated a little too loudly.

"Sherlock..." John warned furiously.

"It's obvious. What I mistook for fear that night you fell on our doorstep was so much worst. You don't fear him you love him. Oh that is interesting." he kept on, pacing around to the dining room and grinning wickedly.

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. She is completely incapable of love just like every other asset I've trained. You must be loosing your senses to come to such an outrageous conclusion." Mycroft stated amused. Babe simply dumped the eggs into the sink and tried to put on her famous smile, but it faltered ever so slightly. John tried not to watch her face, crumpling beneath the mask of impassiveness she slid into place. Mrs. Hudson stood to beg Mycroft to stay for a spot of breakfast but he very politely declined. Of course she should have known he would be there, to take Sherlock off for their family Christmas. She just never saw him on this day, not for the last fourteen years.

"Time to go little brother, you know how mad Mummy gets when we are a single minute late for Christmas brunch. " he said, never looking at her eyes and remaining completely obtuse from the obvious discomfort in the room. As he grabbed his coat and tied his navy scarf in its intricate knot, Babe ran to the doorway with a box in hand neatly wrapped in Christmas sheet music paper and a big red bow to Sherlock, focusing on the gift and the joy she hoped it brought him at receiving one.

"What's this?" he asked, holding it out as if it might bite him and she giggled falsely and flirtatiously and answered, "I suppose you will just have to open it and find out. Although, I'll give you a clue detective: it's a present. And a surprise.". And with a dramatic wink and swish of her hips she turned to sit at the table. Mycroft led his brother out of the door and they rode away to their family home in the country in his jaguar.

Babe forced herself to calm, to be okay, and after draining another flute of champagne she dug into the pancakes plated neatly. She felt her resolve breaking when she realized they tasted terribly.

"What's wrong, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, noting her face and then taking a bite of her own pancake, trying to smile around her sudden grimace.

"Oh dear, you mixed up the salt and the sugar didn't you?" she asked, patting her hand lain across the table. Babe simply looked abashed and tearful and tried to focus on anything but the wretched feelings inside. Of course she ruined Christmas for these people she had grown to love so dearly. It was what she had been designed to do. Killing and ruining lives was her first nature, being good and kind was not her second. Mrs. Hudson looked at the clock and stood, "I've got some things to do with my ladies group this morning, feeding those pour souls. You two can handle the dishes can't you?" she asked, running about the place and pulling on her hat and gloves and coat.

"We can handle it, Mrs. Hudson." John said, smiling and pecking her on the cheek as she walked by. Babe still only stared out of the window watching the snowfall. Delicately Mrs. Hudson kissed her cheek and running her hand over her head she gave John a solemn and pitying look as she left out of the front door. John looked at her tenderly, feeling that kindred spirit of loneliness in the beautiful girl at the table, all alone on Christmas Day. He picked a pancake from the extras on the plate by the stove and realized they were absolutely terrible and immediately spit it back in to the sink. She hadn't noticed. He crossed the room to sit beside her and carefully, reached for her hand laid in her lap, causing those watery blue eyes to bore into his.


	10. Chapter 10

Her eyes locked with his, dark midnight to sky blue, the warmth of his touch bringing her out of her sad thoughts, and she delicately gave his hand a squeeze, trying to force a smile at him to erase the look of concern on his face.

"I'm so sorry I ruined breakfast. Shouldn't you be with Sherlock and his family today?" she asked him, her thumb rubbing over his rough knuckles and looking down at their joined hands. 

He simply shook his head and smiled, "Last year, Sherlock drugged his family and Mycroft never got his cake. I thought I'd stay around Baker Street this year." he said, causing a laugh to sneak out and he noticed her hands didn't quake at the sound of his name this time, a behavior he and Sherlock had caught on to quickly. He wanted to ask her so many things about the relationship she'd had with Mycroft, about what he did to keep her so close and so far away. He had thought at first Sherlock was the most insensitive human on earth; then he met Mycroft Holmes and discovered a man without a heart or soul. She stood carefully and blinked a few times before she began gathering the plates while John walked over to the sink and began mixing warm water and soap. She immediately began tossing the wrecked pancakes and John laughed. He was actually, genuinely laughing at her, his sleeves rolled up beginning washing the dishes she passed to him as she emptied them of the disaster.

"What's so funny?" she asked smiling at him, his happiness contagious and his smile making her stomach flutter as she brought more dishes to the sink then, nudging him with her hip, "You rinse." she stated and waited for him answer. He scooted to the other side of the sink and let out another short chuckle before answering.

"Seductress for the Crown, perfect memory, speaks Latin, and expertly trained assassin; manages to confuse salt for sugar when making pancakes." he stated, grinning at her the whole time, his hands rinsing as she passed him another plate. Delicately she flicked soap water at him with a sneaky sideways grin and he simply laughed harder, a delightful sound that made her laugh with him. Once the sink had drained, he crossed the room over to the entryway and held out her coat," Come on. We' re getting out for a bit." and carefully and hesitantly she let him slide it over her arms. Then he reached over her head and placed her scarf around her neck, John found himself pausing at the light in her eyes and small grin on her face, his hands remaining on the scarf just a moment longer. The corner of her mouth quirked up as he did, and it occurred to John that perhaps no one had ever taken care of her, ever looked after her. He held up a finger for her to wait before ascending to the flat above stairs and returning with his own coat on, a worn out brown thing with a wool collar. He held the door open for her and gestured for her to step out first, and then followed behind. He wrapped an arm around her delicate shoulders and began guiding her down the sidewalk, having her walk on the side opposite of traffic.

"Where are we going?" she asked him, feeling comfortable and warm under his arm and finding her cheeks hurting from the actual smile he had managed to keep on her face despite the disastrous morning.

"The Pub." he stated mildly, leading the way but, keeping her close to his side.

"John, it's Christmas. All the pubs are going to be closed." she said to him, shaking her blonde curls as she spoke.

"Not this one. Believe it or not you and I are not the only two people alone on Christmas." he stated matter of factually and then looked into her eyes, knowing she would understand he was revealing the loneliness he'd felt before Sherlock.

Once inside the warmth of the Pub, John bought a bottle of cheap Irish Whiskey, carried it and two glasses over to be table, and sat across from Babe. The place was mostly empty, one or two older gents around the place, drowning their troubles in ale and talking about their service in the British battalion. John thought she was wonderful, sitting across from him , her coat and scarf removed, her posture natural and her grace easy and not forced. He liked her like this, liked it when he got her all to himself to just talk. She always had something interesting to say, always laughed at his jokes. She kept him talking, listened to his every word and had him consistently striving to keep that delightful smile on her lips, because it was completely breathtaking and the way it touched her eyes for him made him think oxygen was overrated.

"Happy Christmas, Arabella." John said, raising his glass. She delicately clinked hers against his and together they drained them, John quickly refilled them and laced his fingers in front of him on the table.

"This is the part where we tell our war stories." he said to her, his eyes growing serious.

"I've never been a soldier John. Seen real battle. Not like you." she answered him, drinking another swallow of whiskey and leaning towards him, resting her cheek in her palm and watching him very closely.

"We both know that isn't true." he said, his head tilting slightly to the right, a habit she learned he had when he was serious and worried. She quickly drained the remainder of her glass, he followed and in minutes their glasses were refilled.

"Are you trying to get me drunk on Irish Whiskey so I 'll go all solemn on you and have a good cry over my tormented past?" she asked mockingly, lifting the glass again and flicking her gaze to the right outside the window where she could just barely see the snow covered street.

John grasped her hand in his, pulling her gaze back to his and whispered, "I think you need to. You've been way too strong now for way too long.".

She merely blinked, tears instantly filling her eyes because she wanted to so desperately. To open up to this man and tell him everything about the pain, the murder, the gunshots and the fear of always running. When Babe's eyes locked with John's as he held her hand carefully, she felt as if in that one touch he was feeling and knowing all of her pain, every inflicted wound. Finally she pulled her hand away and leaned back in the high top chair, choosing a defensive stance, arms crossed before her chest and closing herself off.

"What do you want to know?" she asked, and she drained her glass again, he followed her lead and re filled them again.

"How about you just talk to me. And I'll listen, and you'll feel better. Let it all out for just a little while." he said, leaning closer forward to show her he really did care. As she began speaking, John felt his gut twisting up inside and hated how hard this world had been to this girl. She was twelve when Mycroft found her, and what she went through at the academy was torture he had only imagined. She was fourteen when she killed her first target, a classmate that had been selling secrets to a wealthy man who said he wanted to adopt her. The girl was her roommate and she had thrown up immediately afterwards. She was waterboarded so harshly she almost died, stripped emotionally bare and left open and beaten and physically bleeding, crying on a floor for nearly a month, all food taken away and water her only source of nutrition. She was given a kitten and then watched as it was murdered three months later, to teach her attachment was unacceptable. By sixteen she knew how to please a man in the bedroom through observation and from force, although her first sexual interaction was not until eighteen. Babe decided it best he did not know with who, just some government official in parliament. She cried the entire time she spoke, softly and trying to keep her voice strong and, dammit if John didn't find her beautiful even then, her face crumpled and yet so lovely and sad, those big round eyes even more bright when wet, her teardrops fat and round as they fell. Yet, the more she spoke and the more she cried, the more relieved she felt. Babe realized she was crying out her pain, and once the floodgates opened she could not stop and as much as it hurt it just felt so good. She meant to only tell him bits and pieces but she laid her soul on that sticky pub table and every time she took a shot of whiskey, he followed, as if it was his way of showing her 'I'm with you'.

Several times throughout her story John felt his face go ashen and nearly broke the glass he had on the table clutched in his hand. He thought he had seen things out there, being an Officer and a Doctor, but all of that was the stuff of fairy tales compared to what she had gone through, so young and so very alone. He heaved a deep sigh and wiped his eyes, completely exhausted from the emotional journey she had dragged him through and he knew then, he had to get her away from Mycroft. Whatever it took.

Once the tears stopped, she composed herself with the same grace she always carried. At some point in her opening up to him her arms had uncrossed and she had leaned forward across the high top and the bottle of whiskey had been emptied. John had been around Sherlock long enough to deduce she was letting him in and he thought maybe he could do the same.

"I thought what I went through was rough. I saw a lot of death out there, suicide bombings. I watched a man bleed out through his liver. Never thought I'd come home and miss it." he said with a wry grin.

"So that's how you and Sherlock started working together?" she asked, swiping the last of her tears and finding comfort in the easy conversation, glad she wasn't the only one spilling her guts today.

"Essentially. As you know he forced me to get over my leg injury. I was also shot over there, in the shoulder." he said. A sad look crossed her face, and he realized she was acknowledging their common pain. 

Across town, Sherlock pulled the bright red Christmas bow and gently tore the paper of the box open. He lifted the lid and immediately smiled at his findings. Tucked among white tissue paper was a box of nicotine patches, a new red wool scarf and Larsen violin strings. Sherlock could not help but admit to himself that he was... touched, and he was ready to go home to Baker Street.


	11. Chapter 11

The sun was sinking low against the city, and John and Babe had spent the entire day together in the Pub simply talking. They laughed and shared fish and chips, finished off their first bottle of whiskey with the house ale and smiled for the rest of the day, Babe more lighthearted than she had felt in years and John finding himself joyful to be in the presence of a woman who seemed to have a brain, that cared and listened and had such great ideas. As the pub began to fill with people wrapping up their Christmas day festivities, John and Babe decided to head home. Mid-way to the flat, the night had become black and a soft thick snow pelted to the ground.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Babe asked, stopping their stride and turning her face up to the sky, her pert little nose kissed by snowflakes. Her long dark lashes fanned over the tops of her cheeks decorated with white flecks and her long blonde girls were covered in white bits. John felt his chest swell simply gazing at her, the loveliness that was Arabella. It dawned on him that every man that looked at her saw that beauty, she was made like a small sensual doll, perfect face, long blonde curled hair, big blue eyes, but he saw a different beauty in her. It was the glow of happiness shining through her olive skin and making her bright, like an angel, just as he had first thought that morning that made her so beautiful to him.

“It’s lovelier than words.” He said, smiling at her and then glancing up at the snow fall, finding in this moment happiness at something so simple. Outside 221 Baker Street, the sounds of the violin filled the lane, Sherlock softly playing Silent Night. It was beautiful and almost sorrowful as his playing tended to be, and she and John stopped at the foot of the steps looking at each other.

“Can you dance, Dr. John Watson?” she asked. He laughed then and looked down at his feet.

“Um… no actually. Never was much of the dancing type, Ms. Arabella Lockley.” He said laughing, looking up again, “But I can do this.” And in that moment John grabbed her to him, and she flung her arms around his neck and he was spinning her on the sidewalk. The snow was slicker than he had accounted for and as she slipped beneath him, he wrapped one arm lower to her waist and cradled her head with the other as she grabbed his coat and he fell on top of her, the thickness of the snow cushioning the fall. With her fingers gripping his lapels she found his face close and her eyes were lost in the lightness of his, and the way he smelled of clean aftershave and lightly faded cologne. Despite the wet of the snow sneaking inside her tights and dress she felt completely warm, as if he were a furnace encircling her with his honest warmth.

John was smitten; he knew it in that moment. And the way her eyes bore into his he wanted desperately to kiss her, right there until they were both breathless. If her eyes were any indication and the way she ran her tongue over her plush bottom lip she wanted him to do it. He could not help his hesitation, knowing what she was and wanting to be sure that when he did, it was a real kiss for her, one full of tenderness and true affection, to wash the ashes from her mouth of everyone before him. But nothing in that moment could guarantee the authenticity of the press of her lips to his if he took control and did it. He had never thought so much on one kiss. Suddenly, the green jaguar pulled to the curb and Hartford stepped out to open the back passenger.

He eased up, holding her wet frosty hands and looked at her confused, “You’re not staying tonight?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“I need to go home and prep for my next mission. The plan is set to go into motion after the holidays.” She answered, looking put out at the prospect. She hugged him then, closely and fiercely, making him wish she’d never let go and as he echoed her embrace he found he did not want to let her go either. Carefully, she pulled away, ran her hand down his cheek and pressed a kiss to the other, squinting her eyes tight in pain, leaving him suddenly feeling like some vital organ or limb was being torn from her body and holding there for a moment too long. John closed his eyes too, put a hand on the back of her head and let go in the same moment she pulled away. He inexplicably felt like a piece of him was being ripped out and reached for her hand.

“Arabella, you don’t have to go.” He said, stopping her and giving her a pleading look.

With a sad smile she could not look him in the eyes as she said, “Yes I do, John.” And in seconds she was in the car, the door was closed, and the jaguar rolled carefully away from Baker Street, leaving him to watch her until it was out of sight and the cold deepened into his bones from the snow.

Upstairs Sherlock was composing, which meant something was terribly wrong, and as John sat down in front of the fire, he stopped playing and sat across from him.

“She bought me a gift.” Sherlock said, sounding almost offended but, John knew he was simply confused and probably more honored than he would ever care to admit. John then noticed a box on the fireplace mantel, much the size of the one Arabella had given Sherlock, but wrapped in golden paper with white snowflakes, a bright green bow tied about it. He felt like a young lad again, and was excited to open it up. Inside tucked around bright red tissue paper he found a new watch, military grade, the best of the best for doctor's and soldiers alike and he knew it was something he would have never bought for himself due to the cost. There was also a new, navy, quarter zip jumper and a bag of imported Colombian coffee. He had to admit, she was amazing and the gift touched him not so much for the expense it must have been, he was sure money was no issue for her, but the thoughtfulness of it. He set it aside and ran his fingers over his closed lids, his confusion and frustration mounting.

“It’s Mycroft, Sherlock. And the love she has for him is far more twisted than we know. It’s like she is his prisoner.” He said, deep in thought with his brows furrowed and his eyes lost in the fire.  


“Stockholm Syndrome.” Sherlock said slowly and deeply causing John to shake his head and cross the room to the front window. He knew Sherlock was right but wanted her to be so much stronger than that. And yet, could he blame her?

“She had to sleep with someone nearly twice her senior for the initiation to become an asset. They tortured her, forced her to bloody her hands at fourteen. I just can’t wrap my mind around what she endured.” He said, his mouth back in a grim line and his arms crossed over his chest.

“It was Mycroft, John. He was the one to conduct her initiation. He found her, watched her break and had her brought to his bedroom like a shiny new toy.” Sherlock clipped irritated, but needing John to see the sick, twisted life the woman who stole his heart was leading. John nearly doubled over with nausea at the prospect of Mycroft soiling the young girl and yet the more he thought on it, the more clearly it all became. He had rescued her from child prostitution at age twelve, turned her over to his little program and made sure she became the best asset the Crown had. It ensured him the ability to say she was his find, his agent; and when she excelled he could take the credit for his little operative. Mycroft was a rather prideful creature so, of course, he wouldn’t let anyone else take her virginity, he would be the first no matter what she did for the Crown after then, and that was his mark.

“Christ, Sherlock. But, that was eight years ago. How can she possibly still…?” and with that his face fell as he found Sherlock’s eyebrows raised, fingertips pressed together and that look on his face that said ‘really John?’. His stomach turned over again and the color ran from his face as he looked down at his feet, the rage building up inside making him feel like a band of rubber stretched too far and once it broke, the ends would leave a mark on everything holding a piece of it. John quickly grabbed his coat and made his way down the stairs, Sherlock fast behind doing the same.

“I need to see this for myself. I need to talk to her.” John said and Sherlock knew it was true, he’d have to see it for himself, that the woman he’d fallen for so madly was completely at his pompous, arrogant brother’s disposal.


	12. Chapter 12

Babe was not asleep; she was simply curled up on her side staring into the abyss of her dimly lit bedroom. She couldn’t fathom how a good man like John Watson could look at her with so much care and tenderness knowing what she was and now, knowing everything she had done. He knew about the blood on her hands, knew she had slept with men for information and he looked at her like the most delicate treasure he had ever found. She was so conflicted, knowing she could never allow herself to love a man like that, because a man like John deserved so much more. He deserved someone that was whole, not someone tainted and wrapped up completely in love with another man.

Slowly, the other side of the bed dipped, the side closer to the bedroom door, and warmth spread over her back. She allowed the adrenaline to spike in her, the comfort flooding her veins. She hadn’t heard him enter her home, nor come into the bedroom. She never did. His cologne filled her bed linens instantly and he laid an incredibly tender kiss to her neck, his arm across her breasts to hold her back against his bare chest like a life vessel.

“It’s been a long time. I’ve missed you.” She whispered to the darkness, running her manicured fingers over the top of his hand lovingly. He squeezed his eyes shut against the power her touch had, the power to bring everything out in him. His hand slid up the hem of her satin sleeping gown and in one motion he had her lace panties around her ankles and she shoved them deeper to the foot of the bed, his other arm remaining locked across her chest holding her in place. As his fingers dipped into her folds she was already wet for him, already shaking and panting from the arousal and feelings he brought to the surface with his presence alone.

Carefully, he pulled her thigh backwards over his hip and pushed himself inside of her, sliding down the sheets and then up into her, slowly and tortuously, shivers racking his body at the contact of her skin inside and out. She moaned softly, her frantic panting arousing him further and causing him to harden inside of her. He began to ease out, just removing himself halfway before he slammed back inside eliciting a loud scream of pleasure from her perfect lips and throat.

“Shh, pet.” He whispered in her ear, his warm breath and the kindness in his voice causing her walls to clench around him. He groaned before rolling her onto her belly, never leaving her body and pulling her delicious rear up to meet his slow and steady thrusts. He felt her come immediately and raked his fingers down her beautiful back, his fingers framing the single long dent of her spine. He continued to move in and out of her, crashing his head against the spot inside, building her orgasm to a fever pitch. He would slow himself, pausing with his member sheathed to the hilt in her hot, wet ,walls and delicately played with the outer bud in front, his arm across her hip to reach it.

Babe then felt the moment he lost his control, the moment his need to release overcame his need to make love to her slowly. He grabbed her shoulders, his fingers applying just the right amount of pressure. He began to slam himself into her, his body quickening and hardening inside of hers. Minutes later, he had her screaming her orgasm into the pillow he had pushed her into, and he was panting hard and fast leaned over her shoulder, spilling his warmth into her and shivering from the relief and release. He was the only man to have ever been inside of her this way, the sterilization having erased the need for protection, although, with the others she used it for cleanliness and her own sanity.

Spent and exhausted he lay back with her, pulling her back against his chest as they lay on their sides, never letting her see his eyes or face. As her breathing steadied, long after his had, he found he could not let go, unable to make his arm release her from the cage of her back against his chest. He knew she could feel the way his heart was thundering against her shoulder.

“Don’t leave me. Not just yet.” She whispered pleadingly, hating the sound of her own desperation and reaching for his hand attached to the arm holding her and kissing the inside of his wrist and palm, feeling his hard pulse jump against her lips. He did not react to the plea; simply calmed himself and closed his eyes in an effort to close his brain back off, to stop it from producing the chemicals for love of this woman. He gingerly laid a kiss on the curve where her arm was connected to her shoulder and the last words she heard were him whisper, “Sleep, pet.”.

Babe drifted into the deepest sleep she had been in since the last time she slept on Baker Street. In his arms she felt protected, adored and appreciated and so completely at peace. She felt complete after he made love to her, even though she did not see him while he did. She knew he did not love her, could not and was not capable of it. But in these moments she could not resist the temptation of dreaming and pretending all would be well, that he would always be here and the notion rocked her to sleep inside her soul. She was spent and slept with the stillness of a corpse, aside from her deep and perfectly even breathing, her heart beats trying to match his of their own volition in her slumber.

Mycroft re dressed himself in his three piece suit, mechanically retying his red tie without a need to see in the mirror. He was obsessive and compulsive so it would be perfect, the motions robotic and simple. He slid back into his shoes and silently made his way to the bedroom door, the same way he had entered. He stole one last glance at his beautiful blonde dove, curled up like he were still behind her and holding her fiercely while she slept. He could have given her one last touch, one last kiss, but he never allowed himself to do that. He simply left her in perfect sleeping peace, descending her stair case and grabbing his umbrella by the door, the only trace he had been there the handmade, blown glass rose he laid on her table in the foyer from his inner suit pocket.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock and John watched the town car pull away and John knew why Mycroft had been there. It pained him and infuriated him all at once. He could have kicked himself for falling for Babe just like every other man that had laid eyes on her, for being a fool. Yet, he knew it was out of his control, that his heart had decided on her and there was nothing he could do to change that. He knew she was in love with Mycroft, and now he knew why, yet the most important thing he was certain of was that she was not happy. It was a silent journey back to Baker Street as the dawn hours approached, and Sherlock remained silent for once which was definitely in his best interest as he might actually throw a punch at him for once. He'd certainly thought about it before.

Sherlock acknowledged that John was working everything out in his head about the tainted woman, and he thought it best he leave him alone. Now wasn’t the time for ‘I told you so’. He found that he himself was a little perturbed at Mycroft’s behavior, and while she was mad for that idiot of a brother of his, it was Mycroft that made sure it stayed that way. He had always known Mycroft was manipulative and heartless and a complete brat when he wanted something; it just never affected anyone he knew personally. Now it was not only affecting Babe but it was affecting John and it bothered him to think of Mycroft playing God to what was once an innocent girl. He knew she was a good person, John would not love her if she was not, and he had immediately begun discovering her genuine nature as soon as she started on the cases. Whether she wanted Mycroft or not, he could never offer her the life she deserved and he would get her away from him.

Babe awoke alone in her bed feeling terrible, her head fogged and her chest feeling ripped open and burning. She knew he would not stay, he never had but that didn’t stop her from wishing and hoping he would. She had spent much of her life wishing and hoping over Mycroft Holmes, wishing he would hold her with tenderness forever, wishing he would kiss her awake and sip coffee in bed with her while he read over new bills and laws for his government work. But, that was a life she could never have, and a life Mycroft would never be willing to give. She knew it was her own fault, for letting him use her, cut her down, giver her love, and in an instant take it all away. It was a constant spiral of emotions and pain and it made her feel worthless. The thought that kept her opening herself to him and welcoming him to her bed once in a blue moon was that, although she knew she could not have a lifetime, those moments were better than nothing at all. Being severed from him and left alone and vulnerable from him was more terrifying than death.

She took a shower, hoping to wash away the regret and pain, and dressed herself in leggings and a long gray sweater leaving her feet bare. In the kitchen she made her coffee, all of her staff on Holiday, and spiked it with a shot of Crown Royal. Her insides were a mess, her heart a sick wreck and she needed to numb the pain and begin her research for the Corsica. She wanted to know who the main leaders were, their weaknesses and their fetishes that would cause alarm should they be discovered. Unfortunately, this meant tracing signals from several child pornography sites backwards and it required another shot in her morning coffee to stomach the disgusting filth she would find.

Moments after she filled and doctored her third cup of coffee, there was a knock on her door. She was puzzled at first, considering no one visited except Mycroft and he merely let himself in, so she was delighted when she saw John Watson on her doorstep, his hands in his coat pockets. She then noticed how his light hair was disheveled and he needed a shave, looking rumpled and aggravated and not like himself. She had noticed he seemed to always be put together, the military man in him keeping him clean cut. He was still handsome though and all of those memories from the night before came flooding into her heart, before Mycroft filled in the rest and then ripped every bit of it out. Her face fell at the thought before she perked up again and said, “Good Morning, John. Please come in.”.

John did not say a word and she made her way into the kitchen, knowing he had a cup of coffee before he left Baker Street, but would be wanting his second one to start the day. His eyes immediately fell on the bottle of Crown Royal on the counter and then to the clock indicating it was not yet nine am. She placed his steaming mug in front of him and noted his gaze lingering on the half empty bottle. She was slightly ashamed for a moment, how weak he must think her to rely on alcohol to fix her problems.

“Back tracking criminals through child pornography sites is not all the fun it sounds like. Helps to numb the pain of all that sick, twisted stuff.” She said, taking a drink and smiling at him hoping her explanation would divert any judgement or question in his mind.

“Is that the only pain it’s supposed to numb you from?” John asked, never smiling at her, his mouth a straight line and his eyes narrowed at her. She could not explain why, but in that moment all of the color drained from her face and she knew why he seemed so angry. It’s because he was, he knew Mycroft had been at her home last night and no thanks to Sherlock he knew why. It wasn’t enough that she felt used and disgusted with herself after everything she had done, now she would have to face the judgement of John, a man she knew was better than she could ever hope to be inside. The pain ripped through her anew, and she could tell in those cool blue eyes of his that he was disappointed, he was hurt and he was ashamed for her.

Carefully, she led him to the living room, set her laptop on the table and curled up on the couch, while he eased himself down beside her. She thought it best she let him speak his peace, let him verbalize his feelings and leave her with only herself to blame.

“You work for him, Arabella. But you aren’t his property. He does not own your soul.” John stated, leaning down and resting his elbows on his knees, not willing himself to look at her. She ran a little finger over the rim of her mug, staring into the black alcohol doused liquid and wishing she knew what he wanted her to say.

Finally she scoffed, “My soul. I sold my soul a long time ago. I don’t have one of those.” She muttered bitterly, tears welling in her eyes as she thought about how true the words were.

John shook his head and ran his palm across his forehead, knowing there was no point in arguing with her although it was a lie. “Still, you aren’t his property, Arabella.”, and finally he lifted his eyes to her face, seeing the shame she felt in the way she curled herself into a ball and tucked an arm across her chest.

“Aren’t I though, John? He found me. He made me, created me. His affection is the only kind I have known for so long, my whole life.” She answered sadly, figuring he might as well know everything now, if he and Sherlock hadn’t already figured it out. His frustration was mounting and his cheeks were beginning to redden.

“Affection? That’s not affection, Arabella. You deserve a man that does more than show his face and come to your bed in the dark of night. A man that can… oh never mind!” he said growing irritated and his voice rising.  


She snorted, “I never even see his face.” Then she jerked her hand up to cover her mouth realizing she had said the words aloud, her eyes widening as he turned to her furiously, the light blue turning hard gray as he looked at her pursing his lips. He didn’t know how hard this was hitting him until she uttered those words. Finally, he breathed in through his nose and crossed the sitting room over to her. He lowered himself to knees in front of the couch, and laid his hand on her thigh in a gesture of comfort and assurance.

With his eyes gazing into hers, his pale lashes blinking up at her, she felt something inside of her breaking as he said, “You deserve to be loved. You deserve a man… that will make love to you in the daylight, look into your eyes when he does and tells you he loves you constantly. And means it and isn’t just talking about your looks or your body or your hair. Just you, Arabella. But, he can’t get through Mycroft to get to you, he might try, he might even try to fight, but you have to decide to step away.” He said, never taking his eyes off of hers, watching as the wetness caused them to sparkle like sapphires and in seconds, her coffee mug was set aside and she slid from the couch to her knees and then into his arms, pouring her heart into his shoulder. John had never been an overly affectionate person, but with Arabella the touches and embraces were second nature, as easy as breathing.

He eased her back, feeling her tears soak his shirt and put his hands around her face, “Come back to Baker Street and stay. Just a few nights, a few weeks, however long you need. Mrs. Hudson would love to have you, I’ll take the couch if you want. I know you think of it as your home, and he can’t reach you there, he can’t use you. You have to try to let go of the thing inside of you that’s hurting. You deserve… so much happiness.” He said, his voice strong and calm, his passion pouring into his words and his eyes searching her, pleading with her.

She nodded quickly through her tears, feeling the weight of his words. Babe would never be able to explain it, but he changed her mind so quickly she felt excited at the prospect of packing her bag to leave. She knew there would be consequences, but she had given so much up for Mycroft and the Crown, when was it enough? He thumbed the tears gently from her cheeks and smiled at her, bringing one to her face again and feeling lighter knowing she would be on Baker Street indefinitely, and he didn’t care if all they ate were salty pancakes because as much time as she’d spent there, it felt a little empty without her laughter, the banter between her and Sherlock, and those secret moments he would catch her looking at him, a perfect little grin on her face and a slight blush across her cheeks and neck. Finally he stood and pulled her to her feet, his hands holding her small hips and he couldn’t help but feel like he was watching Arabella come to life.

The moment was interrupted when John’s phone rang. Normally, he would have ignored it but it appeared to be from the least person expected to hear from. He apologized before answering and Babe simply nodded and smiled and made her way up the stairs. She grabbed her teal TUMI duffle bag and began stuffing it with her sexy underwear since it was all she owned, the scraps of lace and satin she had to sleep in, and then grabbed all of her favorite jeans, some comfortable blouses, her blazer, some flat loafers and riding boots. She flew into her bathroom filling a smaller bag with toiletries and a few make up items and hauled them both to the foyer. John was waiting for her but he did not look happy.

“Why don’t you go on over to the flat, it looks like Sherlock and I have a new case.” He said as she pulled on her soft UGG boots.

“Shouldn’t I come along? Since I’m a permanent member of the team now?” she asked confused.

John didn’t want to lie to her so he simply said, “Maybe its best we fill you in later.” And she knew Mycroft had called him. She looked down at her fingers and nodded, knowing a car was waiting out front to take John to Mycroft’s office. She felt silly, but she felt terribly sad at the prospect of watching him walk out of her front door. He grabbed her shoulders, gave her his genuine smile and said, “I’ll see you at home.” And with a kiss to her cheek he was out the door and in the waiting car, leaving her bursting with joy in the doorway.


	14. Chapter 14

He was initially shocked when the car arrived at Buckingham Palace to let him out. What didn't shock him at all was finding Sherlock in the main sitting room on the settee wearing only a bed sheet looking rather disgruntled. John awkwardly sat beside him and in minutes the two were bursting into hysterical laughter, John's eyes raking over the ceiling and in complete awe to be at her Majesty's home. Mycroft was less than amused to find them in fits of laughter, and after a little persuasion and tea, Sherlock acquiesced and put on the tailor made black suit Mycroft handed him. Once all were fully dressed, John very tempted to steal the saucer beneath his cuppa as a souvenir, Mycroft began explaining the precarious situation they were in.

At the moment, the Woman, also known as Irene Adler, currently had in her position some rather embarrassing photos of a female person of great significance to the Monarchy. She had also managed to cause two major political scandals in the last year.

"We believe these blackmail images are on her mobile device. It will be locked, and more than likely very cleverly hidden. If you two can uncover the device, my team can have the images permanently erased as well as discover her association with Jim Moriarty." he said, carefully taking a sip of tea.

"So you just expect us to retrieve a mobile? That's it?" John asked, his brows pulling down.

"I might also bring it to your attention this is a matter of National Security. The Woman is not to be taken lightly. She is wealthy, selling a particular form of punishment for those willing to pay the steep price." Mycroft stated, raising a brow in challenge.

"Tell us why you were leaving Ms. Lockley's town home last night." Sherlock stated, darkly and without hesitation, his eyes narrowing. John immediately gaped at Sherlock, having never expected him to call the elder Holmes out on his behavior and activities of the night before.  


"As I am a gentleman I will not divulge the details. It is just sex, Sherlock. Something you do not and will never know anything about." he said matter-of-fact, in an effort to belittle Sherlock and his lack of ability in the intimacy department. Mycroft did not miss the way John's hands tightened on the arms of his chair, they way he pressed his lips harder together and yet Sherlock seemed to be the one asking the questions. He narrowed his eye and waited for one of them to speak. It seemed his younger brother decided to take his leave, and so he stood in one graceful movement and traveled down the long marble hallway. John reigned in his temper and stood to follow but was stopped.

"Be careful where you put your heart Dr. John Watson. You can never turn a woman like that into a housewife." he said, never looking up from his newspaper and sipping his tea.

"Why not? You turned her into your little murderous plaything." John said through gritted teeth, his hand on the doorway tightening its grip and turning his knuckles white.

"Yes John I did. So please do yourself the kindness of remembering that. Everything she is I created, all she knows I had ingrained into her beautiful little head." he answered mildly, threatening, but one would never know it at his casual lazed pose. John crossed the room and pointed his finger in Mycroft's face, causing him to lower the newspaper he had stuffed his nose in to.

"I will get her away from you. And not to own her for myself or anyone else to do so, but to set her free. And I'll do that whatever it bloody takes!" he said, his eyes like ice and a small smile on his lips.

"Are you threatening the British Government in the home of Her Majesty in Buckingham Palace?" he asked, lowering the newspaper.

John's eyes never left his as he said, "Absolutely." and with that walked away with his spine straight, following Sherlock to the palace front. They took a cab back to Baker Street, and on the way there John texted Babe to fill her in on their next case, and once they arrived up the stairs she was curled up on the couch, leaned in close to her laptop and reading through every bit of information she could find in MI6's database on one Irene Adler. John felt his heart flip at finding her there, while Sherlock simply looked at her suspiciously and throwing himself into his usual sitting chair.

"Ah Ms. Lockley what a pleasant surprise. It is to my understanding you will be remaining with us here on Baker Street indefinitely." Sherlock said, his arms resting in his coat pockets and his eyes staring her down. Babe set her laptop aside and stood before him, a child compared to his towering height, considering she was even shorter than John.

"Yes, Sherlock. John invited me to stay. And you know I'm useful to the cases." she stated, crossing her arms, her stance defensive.

"Don't ever move anything in my lab." he stated slowly and then turned and walked away.

"Do you mean the kitchen?" she called as he walked away, mischievously grinning at his back and uncrossing her arms.

"It's a lab! John, tell her it's a lab!" he demanded, sounding a slight bit like a petulant child and pointing a finger straight up in the air. She laughed, shaking her head back and forth and then looked at John.  


"I started researching Ms. Adler. She's quite an interesting woman." she said with a grimace and she filled him in on her most recent findings in the database. Truth be told Ms. Adler's exploits were nothing compared to some of the dirty work she found several officials to take part in. However, she did enjoy two important things: her security and sex.

Hours later, John lay in his bed, one arm over his head, the other across his stomach where he had a book perched he was reading. He was already in his night clothes, consisting of his boxer shorts and a white crew neck t-shirt and found himself comfortable and at ease. Suddenly, he was pulled from his deep thoughts by a soft knock on his bedroom door. He was sure it was Sherlock wanting someone to ramble to as he often did when sleep evaded him.

"Come in." he said hoarsely, and the door peaked open, revealing Arabella's lovely face, still dressed in her sweater and leggings. He cleared his throat and widened his eyes, welcoming her into his room.

"Can I ask you something?" she asked, walking in and closing the door behind her with a soft click. He nodded and moved his out stretched legs so she could sit on the side of the bed if she wanted and laid his book on the nightstand. Sitting up he looked at her profile, his hands resting between his knees. She looked a little bashful and bit her lip, her eyes roaming over his ordinary bedroom before she met his eyes.

"Can I sleep in here?" she asked, deciding blunt was probably the best way to go, not sure how John would take her rather odd request but, he had offered.

"Oh yes. Certainly. Let me just uh..." and immediately he stood to grab his pillow. Babe delicately grabbed his wrist to stop him, pulling his gaze back to her and looking up at him with her big blue eyes.

"I want you to stay." she mumbled, looking at him with one side of her lips quirked up and an innocent look in her eyes. He dropped the pillow from his hand and she let go of his wrist, watching as he closed his eyes, breathed in through his nose and carefully sat down beside her.

"I don't know if that's a good idea. Arabella, I don't want you to think... you don't have to..." he said, trying to find the right words. She shook her long blonde curls and said, "Just sleep, John. I just want to sleep here, with you. I don't know why, but I do." she said sweetly and he realized what an arse he had just made of himself. Of course that's not what she meant. He was doing a terrible job, trying to show she was worth more than what she had been, and yet he made an assumption based on the life she had led. This was going to be difficult.

"I'd love it if you would." he said, and pulled back the covers and fluffed the pillow next to his. She just stood there a moment, looping her fingers and rubbing her toes together.

"I have another odd request." she said blushing.

Moments later, Arabella emerged from his bathroom wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, the waistband rolled up exposing her upper thighs. He was pretty sure the idea was for these clothing items to make her feel comfortable and less sexy; she had told him all she had were satin night dresses and she wanted to sleep in something else. Especially since she would be sleeping next to John. Only one of those things seemed to be true at this moment, because wearing one of his crisp white shirts made him feel like it was his flag on a conquered ship. But, he had to remember that right now wasn't the time, maybe one day but, not at this moment. Still her olive legs were short but not stubby, they were shapely, her thighs curvy and her calves toned and beneath them, tiny feet. He swallowed and she got under the covers, curled up and laid her head on the pillow. He followed suit and propped his head on his hand.

Arabella was comfortable, and she was starting to learn that it was John's presence that did that to her and it made her happy. She wanted desperately to erase her past, but knew she could not do that, not overnight anyway, and stepping away from her old life for a while was going to be difficult. She had no idea who she was before the Crown created her, made her what she was. She kept trying to pretend she was not falling for John Watson, and it was true. She had fallen for him long ago. How could she not? He was undeniably handsome in his own unique way, with those pale blue eyes like a beautiful summer sky, light hair and commanding if somewhat short stature compared to others. He felt things fully, did not barter his feelings or lock them away. He was once a lonely dark man, now filled with contentment if still bits of the darkness remained and he was determined to share that. And despite the darkness the war had put into his heart, he had combated it with intense love for his life with Sherlock.

John leaned down and again, he wanted to kiss her. Yet, he hesitated again, imagining how that might feel to her. Dammit he was not Mycroft Holmes and he would do everything in his power to be sure no where in her mind was the slightest comparison made between them. He knew she wanted it too, but her fear of rejection stopped her from closing the distance between their mouths. To save himself and her the humiliation, he leaned down and kissed her temple, his hand cradling the back of her head. Then he turned over and shut off his bedside lamp.

"Goodnight, Arabella." he said, his voice hoarse with the lateness of the hour.

"Sweet dreams, John." she whispered, the sound delicate and feminine in the dark.


	15. Chapter 15

A soft, airy noise interrupted John's sleep and when he finally rolled over to find he still shared his bed with Arabella, he realized it was coming from her. Her golden locks fell over his navy blue pillow, her wrists were crossed and her hands were close to her mouth and he was not mistaken when he realized she was snoring. Not like London traffic, but a soft little sound indicating she was very clearly in an incredibly deep sleep. He wanted to be annoyed, seeing as how he hadn't slept in close proximity to another being since sleeping in the tents on the battle field, but he wasn't. Not in the least. Because the soft little sound was actually quite endearing, cute really, and knowing she slept so peacefully beside him made him feel proud, like he could protect her. Watching her sleep was fascinating to him, and so he lay awake and observed. Noting the parting of her perfect lips, the slight twitch in her nose when a blonde tendril brushed across it and he delicately slid it out of the way. After a few stolen moments, her hand slid down her pillow and lay between their heads, and without hesitation he lay his over hers, their noses a few inches apart, her light breathing and snores lulling him to sleep.

New Year's came and Arabella insisted they have a get together, including Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and Molly Hooper from the hospital morgue. Arabella ordered Hartford to run her to the Townhouse on Mayfair where she found one of her gowns, a Gatsby-esque number in black with delicate gold beads hand sewn, the skirt pleated for the twenties look and put it on, styled her hair in an artfully classic coif with a diamond head band wrapped around her head, and grabbed four bottles of champagne. She was in and out quickly and arrived back at Baker Street to find Sherlock sitting near the fireplace.

"Please tell me you do not plan to bake or cook anything." he said in his rich deep voice, always honest and serious.

"Not to worry, Sherlock. I've decided to stick to what I know! Hence, I brought the champagne!" she smiled at him, and then he flicked his gaze to her, not turning his head and graced her with a smile across his lips. If she didn't know any better, she would think he was teasing her. She crossed the room and quickly gave him a peck on the cheek, smiling kindly. He would never admit it, particularly out loud but, Sherlock found he was rather fond of Ms. Lockley. She never took his insults too personally, and on some occasions she took his advice. Particularly, when he told her she needed to brush her hair, or her shoes did not match and that her black boots were more advisable for the statement she was trying to make. She also never invaded his space, touched his things, and kept the flat relatively clean. He had also noticed the second box of nicotine patches she had left casually near his violin case.

John emerged from his bedroom his eyes downcast and his fingers trying to fix his bow tie. He absolutely hated the blasted things, but seeing as Sherlock had bent to Arabella's request they all dress up he decided to give it a shot. She crossed the room to him smiling and watched as he put his hands on his hips in frustration.

"Let me." she smiled, and when he looked up the wind was nearly knocked out of him. Arabella in his pajamas was incredibly sexy and very girl next door. Arabella in a short cocktail dress was a foxy woman. She quickly completed the bow and patted it before looking at him, "There. Perfect.".

"Oh would you two please copulate or kiss already. This charade you have going is maddening and I'll have you know no one is falling for it." Sherlock said, standing with his feet stomping onto the rug and giving them both an incredulous look.

The spy in her managed to put on a look of confusion, and she tilted her head saying, "Whatever are you talking about?" but Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. Finally the door downstairs opened and their guests began filing in, everyone dressed as formally as they could. The conversation flowed as easily as the champagne and everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. Laughter filled 221 Baker Street for the night and all was well. At midnight Sherlock played Auld Lang Syne and everyone softly joined in, embracing whoever was closest to them, and then they all raised their champagne glasses. They were a motley crew to say the least, the sociopath, the military doctor, the odd detective inspecter, the girl who worked with dead bodies, the old lady downstairs and the sensual assassin. Still, Arabella had to admit she had grown an immense love for all of them, because they were all of them more family than she ever hoped to know or find. They had become her friends, something she had never known and then began treating her like blood. Perhaps it was because they saw how happily and easily she fit into John and Sherlock's lives, or perhaps it was because she was simply a good person, more than the thing she had been turned into. When she was with them, she liked to imagine and believe she became the woman she might have been if she had never been born from a prostitute, if she hadn't been plucked up by Mycroft and taken to the Academy. It was a lovely notion, and although she did not believe in miracles or second chances, and although she knew if she had not become what she was she would have never met the flatmates she had, she like to think someone up there knew what they were doing when she landed on the stoop steps at 221 Baker Street. The thought made her warm and fluffy from her toes to her ears.


	16. Chapter 16

Reporters and journalists alike were having a field day with the famous Sherlock Holmes and his assistant and blogger Dr. John Watson. One morning after their recovery of the Reichenbach painting, the entire front steps were covered in photographers, and Arabella and John had to convince Sherlock to don the deerstalker in an effort to evade too much publicity. He of course hated the hat and could not fathom why anyone would gift him such a thing. The more the press covered their cases, the more it would provoke Moriarty to make another move against him, and after John nearly being blown up it was a risk they could not take. Arabella stayed in the shadows, never leaving the flat until well after Sherlock and John had gone off on their next case. She knew her days on Baker Street were numbered, knew Mycroft would know where she was and soon he would have her taken to be sold off to the Corsica so MI6 could disassemble their network.

Until then, she used her resources at the British Secret Service to help crack as many cases as possible, and provided necessary back up to ensure their safety. Sherlock still insisted, however, on using his more reliable homeless network at times. At night, Arabella comfortably slept beside John in his bed, and when she awoke in the morning, she would find his hand over hers. She would never be able to put into words how wonderful and whole it made her feel to have him touch her in a way that was genuine affection. He never expected anything from her, did not treat her like a seductress or a murderer. In return, to show her true feelings, she would tenderly kiss his neck, her lips lingering a minute too long in the mornings before he woke, and then make her way to dress for the day and brew tea for her flat mates. Day after day she found herself discovering who Arabella was, and Babe was fast becoming a distant memory, buried beneath the new ones she was forming.

It was late when John was awoken by the sound of Sherlock moving about the sitting room. Running his fingers down his face as he walked towards the rug, he found him throwing on his coat and scarf, fully dressed in his usual all black suit as if he were heading out. This was absurd of course because Sherlock didn’t go out, John thought. Unless, he thought he was being terribly sneaky and going out for a fix and he knew good and damn well John was not going to let him do that.

“Where are you going?” he asked, clearly not startling Sherlock as he had already known John was watching him, his acute awareness to everything around him.

“A meeting.” He said, his pale blue eyes never meeting John’s as he continued to fling his scarf into its intricate knot.

“A meeting? With whom might I ask?” John asked irritated, his hands on his hips and his brow furrowed.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock said, attempting to pass John and head down the stairs.

“Mycroft wants to meet with you in the middle of the night?” John said, taking a defensive stance by crossing his arms, his voice incredulous and raised. Sherlock did not respond just held up his phone so he could read the text for himself. There was an address in the old warehouse section, Brickfield Road in Bromley and one sentence. Meet me. John was getting angrier by the second and was not sure why Sherlock had not yet realized Mycroft would never meet in such a seedy part of London.

“What if it’s Moriarty? What if it’s a trap?” John asked as Sherlock pushed past him to make his leave.

“Then it is best I go alone. I need to speak with Moriarty as well. If it's him then there is a game to be played.” He said, and with the closing of the front door he was gone. There was something wrong, he could feel it in the pit of his stomach. As John turned to return to his bedroom, Arabella was already emerging, dressed in dark skinny jeans, ankle brown boots, white lace tank top and khaki quilted coat.

“And where are you off to?” he asked confused and incredulous.

“To follow Sherlock. Mycroft doesn’t text unless he’s having a root canal. Something I seriously doubt he would have done at one in the morning.” She said firmly, biting her lip as she stumbled to press her heel deeper into her boot.

“You can’t go by yourself.” John demanded as she pulled on her plaid scarf and he reached for her arm. She carefully slid open her jacket revealing her revolver there.

“I’m not. You’re going to get Lestrade and back up. I’ll be able to catch Sherlock faster on my own. This is what I’m good at, John.” She said, placing her hand on his cheek, giving him a smile and running out the front door. John then dressed quickly in a plaid button down, jeans and his usual loafers and pulled on his worn wool green coat and ran out of the door as well, leaving 221 B empty for the night save for Mrs. Hudson sleeping soundly in her bed.

Arabella held her revolver tucked inside her coat front and crept carefully around the debris in the abandoned warehouse district in Bromley. She was incredibly careful and stealthy so she did not draw his attention, wanting Sherlock to be alert to anyone else who might be around besides her. His acute sense of smell and awareness need not be hindered by her presence. It was incredibly quiet, and across the lane she saw the house she had been recovered from once. Grimacing she focused back on her friend. She watched as he made his way inside a dimly lit warehouse on Brickfield Road, no noise except the London wind off of the nearby river. The doorway was lit by a floodlight so Arabella could not enter at the expense of exposing herself, so she instead crouched by the door way near an old crate to observe the interaction.

Sherlock was surprised to find the Woman standing in her lace sheer dress and red trench coat, hair perfectly done, make up without a smudge or line out of place. Of course Moriarty would not have met him himself; he was planning something much greater for his demise. He would not drag Sherlock out to this dilapidated place and shoot him, no. He planned to burn him so that left the question as to why Ms. Adler had summoned him to the outskirts of London using some sort of code to hack Mycroft’s phone.

Arabella listened as the battle of wits ensued between Ms. Adler and Sherlock, and realized she was actually flirting with him. Something about him had turned her on, her eyes glimmering at his profile. Sherlock began to of course barter for her mobile containing the pictures of the person of interest to the royal family but, as Arabella listened she realized he wouldn’t have to, Ms. Adler would hand it over willingly.

"I want protection. The photos are simply an insurance policy. Not blackmail as your big brother insists, that's absolutely tasteless." she said smiling, her voice carrying like the husky seductress she was.

“What do you know about the Corsica, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, and Arabella sucked in a silent breath at the word. The Woman was involved with the largest mob in London and across the greater UK. Did they have something on her? Was she one of their potential treasures up for purchase? It made sense of course.

“Why should I know anything? How are they associated with Moriarty?” Sherlock asked, his slow deep voice resonating calm and control.

“Well, love, you see Moriarty wants to harm you, the Corsica wants to harm me, but more than that they want the little blonde friend of yours that’s hiding by the doorway that followed you here. You can come out now, Babe. I know you’re here.” She said sweetly, as if coercing a wounded animal from hiding. Arabella stood stock still with shock and the moment she crossed the warehouse to the yellow lamp light lamp Sherlock stood under, Ms. Adler noticed her gun and quickly withdrew a glock of her own, from a garter at her thigh. She had it aimed at Sherlock’s chest and Arabella froze instantly, the gun poised in her hand towards the air, only her index finger holding it by the trigger.

“Now now, pet. Put it down.” She said, still talking to Arabella in a soft purr of her voice, calm yet thick with the underlying threat. Arabella paused of course; knowing that once her gun was on the cracked concrete floor she would be vulnerable, and more importantly she would have little in the way of protecting Sherlock. His eyes were on her, slanted to the side and his face an unreadable mask as per usual, and when Arabella looked at him she simply bit her lip, shook her head and when Ms. Adler cocked the hammer, she urgently set her revolver on the ground noting the action was to hasten her surrender.

“I need her of course, once the Corsica has her I’ll be free to return to my business. I've been paying them off for years to keep me and some of my clients from their interference. They've offered me complete and total immunity from them. I'm just tossing you the photos and my mobile as a gift. From me to you. You, Sherlock, I should really let you go now. He has such plans for destroying you.” She said seductively, crossing the room and coming within a few meters with her gun carefully aimed at Arabella. Sherlock’s eyes widened ever so slightly, but relaxed when the glock was aimed back at him.

“I should really kill you. It’d be much less painful than what he has planned.” She stated, causing a shiver to run through Arabella, but Sherlock remained unmoved.

In that next second, Greg and John burst through the back door and charged for Ms. Adler. As Lestrade grabbed her wrist the trigger was pulled by her long red nailed finger and a bang cracked and resonated throughout the empty space. Arabella knew she had only one choice, as soon as she saw the struggle and knew the gun would fire, with all of her strength she shoved her whole body into Sherlock’s as the bullet ripped into her abdomen, fire exploded through her and blood sprayed across her shirt and arms. The echoing sounds of John and Lestrade’s yell was the only sound that remained as she hit the floor, crumpled over, warm blood flooding into her hands. Turning the stark white of her shirt to bright ruby red, the color angry and fast spreading over her entire abdomen.

The shock had everyone frozen for a moment, excluding Irene Adler as she tore away from Greg’s grasp and ran as fast as her stiletto Lou Boutins would carry her. Sherlock was like a statue, still trying to absorb that she had just sacrificed herself for him. He was watching her die when he himself could be laying there had she not worked so quickly. Her life for his, a gesture he had not the emotional capacity to even begin to understand. John tore across the room to her as she slumped over and fell to her back, the blood loss turning her skin pale and her eyes becoming fluttered and unfocused. This spurred Lestrade into action at last, and he immediately called in an ambulance, demanding dispatch they be here in sixty seconds or else, teeth gritted in anger. Sherlock followed John’s lead dropping to his knees beside her and removed their coats, Sherlock placing it beneath Arabella’s soft blonde curls to elevate her head. John ripped his jacket off and pressed firmly on the wound, feeling the warm blood soaking into the material in seconds.

“Why did you do that?” Sherlock demanded, looking at her and waiting as her deep blue eyes locked with his.

“London… needs… you… John….n-“ she whispered, but her head rolled to the side and her eyes began to close. John pressed harder and put his hand on her cheek.

“Arabella. You stay with me! Don’t you go nodding off, you hear me?” John said, adrenaline coursing through his veins, his heart racing in his chest, his voice choked and panicked as he spoke. She opened her eyes to look into his, and a sideways grin decorated her lovely, pale lips.

“Come on, soldier. You… and I… we both know… can’t survive when… a bullet hits here…” she said, and tried in vain to lift her hand, her fingertips almost touching his jaw before it went numb and tumbled down next to her. John touched her wrist and noted the faintness of her heartbeat and pulse. If they could get her to St. Bartholomew's fast, she would live despite the amount of blood she was rapidly losing. For the first time in his life, the sight of blood was making him dizzy and his hands tried to falter, but the pain he felt in face of Arabella's death had him carrying on, trying desperately to apply pressure on her wound with his coat. Arabella was rather happy when the pain began to dull, and sleep pulled at the corner's of her mind. It was lovely, the peace, the calm and warmth she felt despite knowing her body was shivering in shock. Somehow, she had escaped into her mind, John's voice the only one slicing through her unconscious state, urging her to talk to him, to stay awake and most importantly, stay alive. Yet, the pull of eternal sleep was so tempting, the pain would be long gone, never to be remembered along with dying and bleeding out slowly. It was redemption wasn't it? Her life for Sherlock's? She couldn't help but grin as she heard John barking orders to the people around him, demanding they handle her bleeding form with gentleness and care.

Once inside the ambulance, John refused to allow anyone else to look over Arabella. He was a doctor after all, and had faced wounds such as this first hand in Afghanistan, and he'd be damned if anyone was going to treat his girl but him. His girl? Yes, at some point he began to decide that she belonged with him, not as something he owned but by his side, his love. The bleeding had become a slowed flow from the wound, and John had high hopes it had not grazed a major artery. Arabella, of course, had been trained for wounds such as this, and kept her breathing even and deep, the calm preventing possible hemorrhaging and he was so proud of her for sticking to that. For once he was glad the Crown had at least trained her at that. John cut her ruined white shirt and carefully began tightly bandaging the wound, while Sherlock sat inspecting Irene Adler's mobile device. Suddenly, the ambulance driver yelled a curse, causing Sherlock and John to lean forward to view out of the front windshield and find they were fast approaching a row of officers, blocking the path into London traffic and for no apparent reason. In an instant Sherlock had withdrawn Arabella's gun he had retrieved from the floor after she had been shot.

"Run through them or you'll be worst off than she is." Sherlock demanded, his eyes severely hardened, his voice never rising above a deep rumble with the revolver barrel poised precariously close to the driver's temple, the man then yelling and cursing even more loudly, clearly not impressed or willing to take orders from non emergency response personnel. John stared at Sherlock with his jaw slack, shocked at his dramatic gesture to save the girl who had taken a bullet for him and at that moment he knew Sherlock loved her too. As they continued to close in on the officers standing between their cars lined up blocking all lanes, another police auto swerved past the ambulance and tore a path between two cars, the officers jumping out of the way in fear, apparently not having anticipated one of their own to wreak such havoc and the ambulance driver had the sense to keep going, his eyes shifting to the gun held to his head. Sherlock knew it was Lestrade and was suddenly grateful John had brought back up to his little interlude with The Woman. It was the only thing he could be glad of, for in this moment he hated the events that transpired and the fact that Arabella's life was simply hanging in the balance. Knowing she might die and knowing John would never be the same again, the heartache would destroy every bit of goodness the war had not taken from him.


	17. Chapter 17

Doubt was creeping into John’s mind; Arabella’s breaths were becoming shallow, and her pulses so faint he had to press hard into her wrist to feel the very distant flutter. He did not realize the excessive distance they were from the hospital and he could only pray that a surgeon would be ready upon their arrival. Fear was eating him alive, like termites trying to destroy his foundation. He would not give up on her though, not now after all they had been through together. He held her hand firmly still, checked the blood pressure cuff and sent out a prayer to anyone out there who might be listening, harder than he had in years, please just let her live.

Across town, in his study, he answered the phone and the information was conveyed. He hung up gingerly and then ran his fingers across his brow and through his hair, lowering his elbows onto his desk. She had done exactly as he had hoped, followed him to the meeting place and she had defended Sherlock with her life. The Corsica paid some dirty officers in hopes of stopping possible escape, and in turn MI6 had captured a cluster of their highest paid auctioneers. Now, she laid dying, Lestrade and John’s intervention not anticipated. After one other quick call, he had his car brought round and in the silence of the night with a grimace and sadness plaguing his features, rode to St. Bartholomews, walking to the door with shoulders slumped before he managed to correct his posture despite the aching inside of his chest.

A surgeon was waiting in the Emergency Room, and Arabella was taken from them, Sherlock and John left in a stale, too brightly lit hallway, Sherlock sitting on a bench staring off into space and John pacing the room. He ran his fingers down his face and realized he still had her dried blood all over his hands, his stomach twisting and his heart pounding out the pain of her suffering. He stared out into the night, his mind reeling. He should have kissed her, should have done it Christmas night but, blast it he had overthought on it. He should have been kissing her every night when she fell asleep beside him, warm and comfortable and pure sweetness in his bed. He should have told her that he wasn’t really asleep each morning, and that kiss she pressed to his neck reverberated in his soul every time. All he could do now, was wait and desperately hope he did not lose her tonight, so he could make up for all that hesitation.

The swinging doors burst open and in ran Greg Lestrade, out of breath and rather bruised as he stumbled down the hallway to John and Sherlock, clearly a rolled ankle but otherwise not too damaged.

“That was you, wasn’t it? You tore through that barricade.” John stated a slight grin as he said it.

“Did what I had to do yeah. Turns out those weren't even members of the force, they were paid to create the barricade.” He answered, shrugging as if it was normal to run down a group of his own force to make way for an ambulance.

“And as it happens those cops were paid off by the Corsica specifically. It appears our Ms. Irene Adler had promised them Babe in one piece or another, and they were to block off any escape routes in order to capture her.” Mycroft said, his umbrella tapping on the tile floor, a look of boredom on his face as if nothing were amiss. As if his best agent were not in the next room dying. Sherlock then stood to meet his brother’s eyes, a fierce look in his glacial blue ones and his mouth a thin severe line.

“You orchestrated this. You knew she would protect me.” And it wasn’t a question, it was a low accusation with his hands balled in fists by his side. Mycoft had the audacity to look abashed and after crossing his hands over the umbrella handle, glancing down and then meeting Sherlock’s eyes again, he said, “Come with me little brother.” And turned to walk away, back down the hall towards the double doors leading outside of the hospital. John crossed his arms as Sherlock looked at him over his shoulder and then turned on his heel to meet Mycroft outside.

The older brother withdrew two cigarettes from a silver case and extended one to Sherlock. As if synchronized, they lit them at the same time and blew their first drag into the late night fog. Mycroft then stepped away, setting his umbrella against a bin and taking a seat on a bench. Sherlock then acknowledged that his brother was giving him the upper hand, by sitting he was letting him know he was in this moment the weaker brother. His facial expression was complacent as ever, but in his eyes there was a sadness, a despair to be acknowledged and for the first time Sherlock looked at the older Holmes brother and noticed that somewhere inside of all of that stuffiness and the obsessive compulsive habits was possibly a heart.

“I’m not sure where to even begin. I… I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked firmly, not willing to play soft.

“Babe, she is, more than an operative. More than my occasional lover. It’s true I found her at twelve years old after she attempted to blow up the entire British Trading Docks with Heroine and a spark from one of the train cars. She was running from the Corsica at the time, her mother having been one of their services, had recently died. They ventured inside a new market, one you and I both know about involving young girls and boys. I thought at the time I was saving her.” Mycroft said, his eyes far away as he stared off into the bushes surrounding the walkway.

"By training her to be your toy." Sherlock muttered.

"By getting her off of the streets. By making her more than a street urchin or worst." he said, his eyes flashing to Sherlock's, inhaling from his cigarette again.

"And how is it you justify sleeping with an innocent girl of only eighteen years?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft hesitated, drew from the cigarette again and answered, "Because she was pure, I thought of her as a little dove. I had to make sure, at least once in her life someone touched her with tenderness. In that regard, I could take care of her. I made very sure it was my bedroom she was sent to for her initiation. After that night, I thought for a time after that I could close myself off, go back to the soulless heartless man you and society know me to be." he sniffed, blinked his eyes hard and took the last draw of his smoke.

"Hearts break, people die, Mycroft." Sherlock muttered, remembering the words his brother had drilled into him relentlessly over the years.

"Caring... is not an advantage." Mycroft said, a mocking grin crossing his face before turning his to lock eyes with Sherlock, "I love her as surely as you love John, Sherlock. And I would be remiss to tell you I am frightened. I can start war with Korea overnight, I am the British Government and work freelance for the CIA. Yet, I do not have the power to make her live through this." he said and ran a hand over his head.


	18. Chapter 18

It was an epiphany to Sherlock to learn that Mycroft loved Arabella so fiercely, and in this very moment he began to realize he did not know the man behind the Crown at all. Mycroft crass and heartless, unfeeling and superior to emotions was all he had known. Mycroft out of control, afraid and very clearly in love was something so strange it seemed mythical, and he was unsure how exactly to take this side of his brother. He stood from the bench and approached Sherlock, placing his hand on his shoulder and his mask of boredom and speculation returning to its place.  


“I shall appreciate your discretion at all I have revealed. Not even Watson need know.” He said, and then casually strolled past him as if he had not just poured out his feelings under the alcove in front of St. Bartholomew’s.

“I would say I won’t. However you will ensure I feel like a git should I ever attempt to reveal your true nature.” Sherlock said. Slowly, as the doors slid open, Mycroft turned.

“It is not my true nature, little brother. It is… only her.” He said and then in an instant he was gone back indoors.

Sherlock flicked his cigarette out and then followed Mycroft’s lead. He was beyond puzzled and still, he could not fathom the reality of this entire situation. Arabella had caught him completely off guard, as he had begun to relax his body to endure the bullet’s impact and keep his heart from pumping out adrenaline; she had used all of her muscle to shove him. The blood kept flashing across his mind, so much bright red soaking and soaking into the stark white of her shirt and her skin becoming as light as the lace had once been. London needed him were her words, and he knew she meant to tell him that John needed him as well. It had not yet dawned on him that despite his disdain for mankind, there were a handful of these people that loved him. That he had friends.

The next few hours went by, the four of them becoming more and more active in their anticipation, save for Mycroft who read his paper. Lestrade kept running over everything in his mind and realized he acted far too rationally. He shouldn’t have grabbed Adler’s wrist and yet, he couldn’t help but wonder where the bullet would have struck if Babe intended to jump in the line of fire anyway. It would have possibly hit her in the head and a fighting chance would be nonexistent. He wanted to tell John he was sorry, but now was not the time and it was best they stay in their comfortable silence. John’s anxiety and stress seeming to fill the quiet, so palpable it was loud and clear and almost echoing in its deathly silence.

The surgeon’s footsteps coming down the hall caused all of them to jump to their feet, Mycroft rising more slowly and calmly, delicately refolding the paper no one noticed he had not really been reading.  


“It was touch and go but we believe she is stable, although certainly not out of the woods. We extracted the bullets and have administered two blood transfusions. She has stitches internally and externally and is in a very delicate state. There is still a chance she will not make it as this was a severe hit and her body is fevered to fight off the infection from the open wound. We will be keeping her in I.C.U. until we can be sure she’s staying with us.” He told them.

“Can we see her?” John asked eagerly.

“I can only allow one at a time. She is not awake still, and we have her under heavy pain medication.” He said.

“I should like to see her first. I am her closest family member.” Mycroft said.

“Of course, Mr. Holmes. So glad you called me or she might not have been in proper hands. Right this way. The rest of you may wait here or come back in the morning.” The man said and led Mycroft down the hallway to the Critical Care Wing.

John wanted to hate Mycroft in that moment, using his title to get to her first, but he knew, had Mycroft not had the power he did, Arabella might have died. So he resolved himself to sitting down and waiting, because he would not be able to eat or rest or anything until he saw her breathing, heard a heart monitor ticking. Aside from all of that, he had every intention of being there when she awoke. Mycroft Holmes would be due in his office or one of his clubs, and John would be with her, because she certainly did not deserve to wake up alone in hospital.

“John, I am going to Baker Street. I need to think and alert Mrs. Hudson of our Ms. Lockley’s condition.” Sherlock stated.

“You’ll come back? To see her?” John asked. He did not respond, just turned on his heel and strolled off.

“Don’t worry about it too much, John. It isn’t the first person who sees her that really matters. It’s the one who’s there when she comes to. Let me know if anything changes with her.” Lestrade said, patting John on the shoulder and turning to leave as well. And in an instant, he was left alone with all of the madness and worry in his head, completely powerless and no way to get to Arabella.

Mycroft thought she looked small in the hospital bed and felt his heart stop at all of the machines she had attached to various points on her body. She had an IV administering fluids, a morphine drip, a blood bag, a clip on one of her fingers tracking her pulse, a heart monitor tucked inside the white gown and oxygen flowing into her nose. It was a sight he realized he had not been prepared for and he had to grab the door frame to steady himself. She lay completely still, her chest just rising and falling, her eyes closed and her blonde hair pulled to one side over her right shoulder. She was still pale, although a light staining of pink decorated her cheeks from the fever.

Carefully, he crossed the room and reached for her hand, gently running his thumb over her soft skin and said, “You’re the bravest person I have known. You didn’t hesitate did you? When she turned her aim to him? No of course you didn’t. Your life for his was the only thought your brain was generating.” He said, emotions pouring through his words, his eyes welling with tears.

“Do you want to know what your next assignment is? Stay alive. Just survive this. You’ve survived worst so do not dare consider leaving me now. Death is not an acceptable termination for your employment.” And the floodgates opened as Mycroft Holmes for the first time in his life fell to his knees in his immaculate three piece suit, years of pain and desire and passion pouring out of his eyes, hand over his mouth to stifle his sobs.


	19. Chapter 19

John wasn’t sure when or how he had managed to nod off sitting and waiting for his turn to see Arabella, but he had slumped over in the uncomfortable plastic chair. The vision of her bleeding onto her white shirt and the crack of the gunshot jolted him awake in an instant, his heart rate pitching and causing him to sit upright. The sound he had mistaken for the gun shot was the heavy doors slamming behind Mycroft as he made his way down the hallway. He looked tired; a little rumpled but for the most part as if nothing was amiss. It bothered John that he could remain so cavalier in a time like this, when he himself should have been with Arabella, watching over her instead of going mad with worry.

“She’s in your care now, John. I trust you’ll be careful.” Mycroft said, stopping only to say that, and then moved to leave.

He did not hesitate; found the energy to bolt down the corridor, only stopping at the nurse’s desk to inquire her room number. The Critical Care was a small ward of rooms, all quiet save for the beeping of machines. Arabella he learned was in a close by room, and the nurses had just changed shifts and given her another round of antibiotics. He entered silently, his leather soles of his loafers not making a sound and when he saw her, he felt his heart sinking. Carefully he crossed the room and pulled a chair as close to her side as he could, and ran his palm over her forehead, feeling she was still warm, but her fever was subsiding. John then cradled her hand in his, just as he had every night she had spent at the flat and looked at her lovely face.

The entirety of the next day he would not leave her side and did everything he could possibly think to do for her. John only stepped out for moments at a time, to get a cup of coffee or some tasteless crisps from the machine down the hall. The nurses would try in vain to convince him she would be fine and that they would call as soon as she awoke, that he needed sleep and a shave. He couldn’t though, not until he saw those sapphire eyes, not until he heard her sweet melodic voice. He needed to know, even though placing his hand on her chest and feeling it rise and fall had given him some relief, he would not leave her until he had to. He knew her body was healing, he knew she had been through hell and she needed rest, but he needed her to just see him once.

As the sun set again, John found the exhaustion was taking over and he was almost dizzy with it. Her peaceful breathing was lulling him off along with the rhythmic tick of her heart monitor and very carefully he bent over the bed and put his head down, letting his heavy lids close.

Arabella was very uncomfortable and had imagined death would be more, well, comfortable. Her abdomen burned ferociously and there was a terrible noise in the background. The sounds of beeping and whooshing were incredibly annoying and she was pretty sure something was in her nose. It was also terribly dark wherever she was. Purgatory, she assumed considering she did not have a soul and thought perhaps she was in limbo. She thought she might prefer hell. She groaned and wiggled her extremities, starting with her toes and then her fingers and then felt her surroundings. Through her exploration she discovered blankets and then a soft tuft of hair to her right and as her fingers gently caressed the head she began to realize that perhaps she wasn’t dead after all, and that her eyes were simply closed. She decided she had better try to open them and find out how she had survived.

Those tiny fingers in his hair felt like a dream, was a dream actually, he was sure of it. Then, when it stopped his head flew up and he realized Arabella was waking up and as he wiped his eyes he saw hers finally open. That flash of blue nearly stopped his heart and for a moment he could only look at her and smile as he saw color flooding her face.  


He ran his hand down the side of her cheek and hair and whispered, “There’s our brave girl. How are you?”. She grinned up at him and croaked, “O-kay.”. John pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, enclosing it with both of his and then called in the nurse. Once she was inspected again, she was brought water and ice chips to clear her dry scratchy throat and her mind reeled through all that had happened. She remembered all of it of course, but was amazed she was alive having been so sure she had bled out from the gut wound. It was ferocious and angry now that she was awake, and was in a different kind of pain from the initial strike. She felt bruised and cut and the pain was sharp and burning like an inferno where the bullet had left a hole in her flesh. She didn’t have to suffer long as the nurse brought her a new shot of morphine.

“How long was I out?” she asked, trying to sit up and immediately cursing as the pain increased in her middle. She felt disconnected and cut in half.

“Just twenty-four hours. Bloody tough, you are Arabella.” He said smiling at her.

“Bloody handsome you are, John Hamish Watson.” She mumbled, the morphine starting to finally take its effect.

He let out a short laugh and said, “You’re lucky you’re recovering from a major gunshot wound, love. I’ve nearly shot lesser men for using my middle name.”. She simply smiled, and it nearly brought him to his knees. Arabella wanted to know all about the night she nearly died, because most of it was a blur. So John began filling her in on the details following her nearly fatal bleed out. He told her of the ambulance ride, and she giggled softly when he told her how Sherlock had nearly shot the driver if he did not ram through the line of police cars. Although it all sounded rather exciting as the words left him, he could not help but remember the crippling fear that the woman he loved nearly died.

Arabella reached for him as a look of sadness crossed his face and held his cheek, and he closed his eyes and held it there with his hand over hers.

“I’m okay John.” She whispered and finally, his pale blue eyes met hers.

“You scared me. I was so bloody scared. And you…” and then he stood and crossed the room, his back to hers as he looked out of the window, blinking back tears.

“I love you, John Watson.” She whispered as her eyelids felt heavy, and she drifted off to sleep again, the morphine making her feel like she was floating.

Across town in a shop, Sherlock Holmes was throwing boxes of chocolate from the shelves and muttering relentlessly to himself. The cashier was incredibly perturbed, going behind him and picking the boxes up.

“Too cheesy. These are shaped like flowers. Chocolate flowers? These look like crap. No. No. No.” He was muttering as he tossed them to the floor and continued his trek down the chocolatier's aisles.

“What would you gift a woman who nearly died for you?” he asked the man, shaking his shoulders. The man looked incredibly confused and then smiled seeing an opportunity to up sell the man who had wrecked his shop.

An hour later Sherlock arrived at St. Bartholomew’s with a menagerie of items he could hardly carry. Under one arm he had a giant giraffe, a smaller stuffed tiger and under the other arm he carried a bouquet of roses, a large box containing every possible flavor of fudge the shop sold, half a dozen cupcakes in another and a rather sparkly bracelet he was told any woman would love. He was feeling rather confident in himself and was prepared to see Arabella face to face. He found her alone in a private room, out of Critical Care, sleeping soundly. He could not bear the idea of awaking her so carefully he tucked the tiger under one of her arms and stood the giraffe by the head of her bed. The boxes of sweets were arranged artfully on her bedside tray and the bracelet hooked delicately on her wrist.

He was rather proud of his handy work and relieved to have avoided an awkwardly and rather emotional interlude as he made his way to the door. Then, he heard her waking up and knew the moment her eyes had opened. He carefully turned and kept his distance from her bedside, hoping she might go back to sleep quickly.

Arabella could recall sending John off for at least a shower and shave, but he had assured her he would not sleep at home without her and would be back by nightfall. She dozed off again and when she awoke found herself in a rather odd position. Looming over the head of her bed she found big plastic eyes and a round snout. She realized immediately it was a giraffe and gave it a befuddled look as she moved her arm to find another stuffed animal beneath it. She looked across the room and saw his tall, dark form retreating and knew immediately why it all seemed so odd. Because it was so Sherlock.

“Leaving so quickly, Mr. Holmes?” she asked softly, and finally he turned to cross the room, locking his wrist in his hand behind his back.


	20. Chapter 20

Her voice was weak and sort of strained, but he could tell she had a smile when she said it. He felt his heart twist as he looked at her and tried to keep his look complacent, but he was not like Mycroft and he knew there was no escape. He would have to speak with her and in some form or fashion thank her for her near fatal sacrifice. He crossed the room and continued to stand, searching and wracking his brain for something to say, anything at all. Arabella was merciful enough to break the silence first.

“Have a seat, boss. You’re makin’ me nervous.” She said with a smile and a fake Boston accent, causing a small smirk to cross his lips. He obliged and undid the front button of his suit as he gracefully sat in the chair John had spent the last twenty four hours in. He found it was incredibly uncomfortable, or perhaps that was all in his head.

“So, you going to explain all of this?” she asked, gesturing to the odd collection of items surrounding her, the stuffed tiger still cradled beneath her arm.

“Get well soon? Did I do this incorrectly?” Sherlock asked, now unsure of himself and terribly worried.

“Sherlock, no it’s very sweet. It’s just… you don’t owe me anything. You have to know that.” She said still smiling at him sweetly as ever, her eyebrow quirking as she spoke.

“Of course I do, stupid woman.” He answered rather bluntly. She graced him with a light giggle and simply shook her head. Only Sherlock could call her stupid whilst she was bedridden.

“I believe a friendly embrace and perhaps a card would have sufficed.” She said.

“I do not… hug. As for the card, there wasn’t one that was genuine enough to thank a friend for nearly dying for you.” He said, matter-of-factly. She simply ran her hands down the sheet over her legs and smiled her secret, know-it-all smile.

“Friend, am I? Well, Mr. Holmes, I’m afraid I cannot accept your gratitude until you reach over here and give me an embrace. I also insist you share some of these pounds of sweets with me as well. This is a visit. This is what friends do.” She said her tone as serious as his.

His eyes widened as he stood and began to reach for her, “I’m not sure I should…” he said, trying to find the best way to avoid the IV and heart monitor, the pulse reader on her finger.  


“I won’t break, Sherlock. Now lean down here and hug me.” She said, holding her arms out to him, her eyes full of hope and expectation. Finally, he bent down and wrapped one hand about her shoulders, touching the back of her head, the other wrapping about her waist gently. His cheek was pressed against hers and in an instant Arabella felt him trembling, wetness sliding between them. His fingers tightened slightly on her and she brushed her fingers down the waves of hair at his neck, trying to comfort her much shaken friend. If there was one thing Arabella had learned of Sherlock over her time with him, it was that he did not love many, but those few, three really, he loved fiercely.

After a moment he pulled away and swiped at his eyes, “Well that was certainly strange. Are we quite done now?” he asked.

“You have to share in some of these sweets with me. And talk. And visit.” She told him, scooting over and patting the space next to her on the bed. His eyes widened as a look of horror crossed his face.  


When John returned to the hospital he was in much better spirits, a long very hot shower and face made smooth againg having made him feel like a new man. From the flat, he brought Arabella a few things, her strawberry shampoo, soap, deodorant, toothbrush and paste, hairbrush, underthings and an over sized sweater and leggings. He wasn’t sure when she would be able to be checked out but he wanted to be prepared. Arabella had let him know of the private room she would be moved to and he was relieved she was out of critical care, but would be even happier when she was able to go home. From the doorway to her room, he heard a voice he had not expected.

“It is completely obvious he was the one rinsing the bottles and contaminating them with PCP. It’s so obvious. These detectives are worse than Gary. The chemical compound leaves a distinct trace-“.  


“Oh Sherlock you obviously have never watched crap tele. You’re supposed to be in suspense. And for the fiftieth time it’s Greg!” Arabella giggled.

“Having fun in here, are we?” John asked when he entered and found Sherlock sitting next to Arabella in her hospital bed, in the process of peeling the wrapper from a pastry and her snuggled close to him in the crook of his arm. Jealousy threatened to flare but John remembered Sherlock was in no way a threat, he was simply taking care of her in his absence, and the thought was rather comforting if not odd. He crossed the room and placed the bag he had brought on the floor near her bed.

“Come now John. You’re a man of medical studies. You must know laughter is the best medicine.” Sherlock said all seriousness.

“You look refreshed.” She said, beaming at him like just the sight of him lit her up from the inside, and it made his face split into the goofy grin he was sure had become an incredibly common occurrence since she entered his life. Sherlock then stood gingerly from the bed and re buttoned his suit jacket, walking over to John.

“I believe Ms. Lockley needs rest. I shall leave her in your very capable hands, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock said with a grin, squeezing his shoulder and then turned to leave the room.

He quirked a brow at the very large giraffe that was hidden behind Sherlock behind the bed, the lion tucked under her arm and the boxes and roses.

“I don’t think he wanted to see me. I think he was afraid he’d be too emotional.” She said in answer. Then John’s eyes widened as he realized that was why Sherlock had left the hospital so quickly that night she was shot. He was afraid he would not be able to thank her for saving his life. Arabella then patted the spot Sherlock had relinquished. He lifted a brow and crossed his arms.

“You need rest, I need rest. This is a win-win.” She smiled. He of course could not forgo any request she made with those big blue eyes, sexy long blonde hair and gorgeous face, so carefully he crossed the room, kicked off his loafers and scooted in close to her. She tried to roll on her side but it was to no avail, as the painful pull in her abdomen stopped her. He laid his arm across the upper part of her abdomen and wrapped his fingers about her waist to hold her. Arabella turned her head and snuggled into the crook of his warm neck, feeling the smoothness of his chin, smelling his classic aftershave and light cologne, and finding herself drifting off and snoring in seconds.

It was late when Mycroft returned to the hospital, and he had spent the day dealing with the plane they had filled with corpses to counter a potential terrorist attack. Ms. Adler was rather clever and still at large with Moriarty. When he had a moment to breathe he sent a crew to Arabella’s town home to prepare it for her return home, making sure a bed was brought to the down stairs office space since stair climbing would be out of the question for her for a time. He would be able to watch her, make sure she was properly cared for once she was away from Baker Street. He knew the flat could not accommodate her condition for a time. It was all really clever and he smiled as he thought about having her back in his care.

He strolled effortlessly into the hospital, already been notified of her room number and found it easily. Mycroft opened the door softly and made sure his heels did not tap on the tile as he began to cross it, although he was very quickly stopped in his tracks. Babe slept with her face buried in the neck of John Watson, her snores a soft hum filling the room and a look of contentment on the bit of her face he could see. John was dozing as well, his hand holding her gently across the abdomen. It felt like a direct fist to his gut and he had to remember to remain his calm and detached self. He also noted the large stuffed animals, roses and boxes of chocolate. Of course, Babe had been won over by gifts, although his personal ones were much more feminine and expensive. Lifting a brow in challenge he simply walked out of the room, leaving the two in their sleepy embrace.


	21. Chapter 21

The Doctor was ready to release Arabella a day later and when he arrived to provide prescriptions and instructions, she was sound asleep and John had just emerged from the restroom and changed into clean clothes. The doctor assumed the man was her closest family member or husband so, the two stepped into the hall to speak. He relayed to John that for the first week she would need around the clock care and not be able to walk or stand and would need the amount of lifting of her arms to stay to a minimum. Bed rest was going to be her routine for the next seven days, and he said if she did not have a bench in the shower she would need to get a chair that the hospital could provide. John simply nodded, all the while thinking about how much she was going to hate all of this and that it might be best he stay with her a while. Better him than some stranger at least, and going to Baker Street did not seem like an option at the moment.

She was gently awoken by John moments later and smiled up at him when he told her she was going home.

“One thing we need to clear up right now, though. You need care, someone to help you. No walking or standing or any nonsense.” He said firmly.

“Well I can hire someone for that.” She said.

“No, none of that either. Me. I’m going to take care of you and there is nothing you can do about it. I’m not going anywhere.” John said, hoping the stubborn side of her was listening as well and carefully she nodded. He pressed his palms together and then stood, crossed the room to her bag, and began unloading several items. Begrudgingly, she allowed him to pull on her tights and sweater, put on deodorant and sat up gingerly so he could brush her hair. It was odd, having been self-sufficient for nearly all of her life and she hoped she would heal very quickly so she was not a burden. Regardless of what he said, John did not need another person in his life that required babying.

He would allow no one to lift her into the wheel chair to be escorted from the hospital, and would not even let Hartford help her into the car. John wasn’t sure when he had become so territorial but he had somehow decided he was the only one that could be gentle enough with her. Perhaps it was the familiarity of his arms but Arabella found she did not mind, after all it seemed to be making him happy to do all of this and she would make sure it didn’t drag on longer than necessary. Back at Mayfair she was situated nicely on her large white canvas couch with pillows and blankets, worn out from the journey home. John kissed her head and then stepped out to pick up dinner for the two of them.

After dinner, they watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s; cuddling on the couch perfectly relaxed. John kissed the top of her head and realized this felt natural and so normal. He could imagine his life like this one day, in their own home her tucked under his arm curled close to him on the couch and watching old films. Before her he would have found the idea boring, but case solving with Sherlock had relinquished that and now he found, he wanted both of these lives. As if life with Arabella could ever be boring. She had finally dozed off, but he noticed she wasn’t snoring even the slightest and didn’t seem too terribly comfortable. It wasn’t hard to figure out why after sleeping in those uncomfortable hospital beds and then the couch, she probably missed her own bed. He remedied the situation immediately, climbing into her bed beside her and wondering how she had slept so soundly on Baker Street, her own mattress being far fancier.

The morning was late when the sound of running water jolted John awake, and beside him he found the bed empty. He groaned, rubbed his eyes and followed the sound to her massive wash room and finding her sitting beside the stone tub, her robe slightly open and her hand tucked in the lapels covering her wound. Her head shot up when she heard him enter and a look of guilt immediately crossed her face. Arabella awoke and felt terribly she had caused the poor man to lose so much sleep, he was so peacefully and deeply dozing she could not think of waking him. Surel,y she could at least run herself a bath and clean herself, thankful shaving was not a necessity since she had laser hair removal for her role as seductress. The Crown had insisted on it for all of the girls, one less thing to worry about, of course. Then, she had made the mistake of reaching too fast to turn off the water and felt a sharp slicing pain. She had torn a couple of stitches and had no idea how she could fix them without telling John and she had started to bleed a bit.

John crossed the tiled floor quickly and gently tugged her wrist from the inside of her robe, her fingers spotted with blood. His forehead wrinkled and his mouth went straight as it tended to do when he was frustrated. He didn’t say a word, just left the room and came back with the supplies the hospital sent. He opened it on the opposite side of the tub and sat beside her quietly, his hands resting on his thighs.

“I know you’re mad-.” She started to say but he cut her off.

“I’m not mad. But you… frustrate me.” He said shaking his head, “Arabella you’re going to have to let me help you. Let me take care of you, just for a little while. I understand this isn’t easy for you, and I get that you’ve been alone most of your life. But for once, you don’t have to be.” He said. His words touched her, as they always did because he said them with such sincerity and determination. Carefully, she undid the tie of her black silk robe and let it fall open to reveal her stomach. The bleeding wasn’t bad and it was an easy fix as he carefully stitched the two she’d torn. Then he stood and put the materials away, crossing his arms as he turned to face her again.

“I supposed you’re going to want to put me in the tub, yeah?” she asked, not embarrassed that he would see her naked, having him carry her around hurt her pride more than anything.

“Afraid so. Less you want to keep going around smelling like a hospital.” He said, quirking a grin and causing her to laugh.

“Well, I’d hate to torture you by being smelly. I suppose I have no choice in the matter,” she smiled and let the robe slide from her body. John swallowed hard and tried in vain to remind himself he was a man of medicine and the female anatomy was no mystery to him. Arabella, unfortunately had the body of a goddess and was all perfect proportion and curves and completely female. And he was about to hold that warm plush body to his before setting her down in the tub and then all of that golden olive skin was going to be wet and dear God he had to stop. Clenching his jaw, he picked her up and eased her into the water, the sweet sigh escaping her lips not helping him get rid of his sudden arousal. He felt like a lad again seeing a naked woman for the first time and even with the angry cut across her abdomen she was practically flawless.

“Right well, I’m just uh… going to let you soak and I’ll go uh… check the fridge for food. Make sure there’s um… some in there. Yeah. I’ll be back in a few to help you out.” He stammered and quickly left the room. Arabella laughed softly despite her pain, waiting until she heard him descending the stairs before doing so. She hoped when she healed, she and John might revisit this particular scene and perhaps he would not be so fragile with her. The thought made her smile as she eased lower into the soothing hot water, only her eyes visible from the bubbles for a moment.


	22. Chapter 22

In a week Arabella was able to stand on her own, and walking about was not wearing her out as quickly. John spent most nights with her still, occasionally going by Baker Street or putting in a few hours at the clinic, then he’d come over with take out of some sort and they would laze about the couch watching movies in black and white. Sometimes, they would relax in her bed reading or simply talking. Arabella spent her days researching, working on a background IT basis since she could not reenter the field. For a time they could reside in a simple and happy companionship, comfortable with her past long forgotten as Arabella began to feel more human and she felt like she was whole for the first time in her life.

She was getting restless, her wound still angry and sore, but she wanted desperately to get out of the house. Arabella was pacing the living room, bouncing her mobile off her palm and debating whether she should call Hartford to go out. She had showered and dressed in brown loafers, an ivory sweater and jeans, debating and realizing that without her job, her missions, she had no idea what to do with herself. Her hobbies had, until her injury, included her MMA training and yoga, then there was research and gathering Intel. Outside of that who was she? What could she possibly do?

“You’re looking well, Babe.” The voice said from the doorway, startling her and causing her phone to tumble to her plush carpet. Mycroft was leaning on the frame, his eyes on her and carefully watching her every move. She was slacking; she had always heard him, felt his presence and his eyes on her. She could not for the life of her think of what to say, unable to form any kind of words her mouth slightly parted as she waited for him to explain why he had suddenly appeared.

“Do not look so surprised. I am still your employer and this is not a social call.” He said, walking over to her disheveled couch and choosing not to sit. She swallowed and then picked up her phone, wincing slightly and finding herself much calmer in his company than she had ever been before.

“I’ll make some tea.” She said finally, and left for the kitchen where he followed, leisurely sitting on one of the bar stools as she busied herself with the kettle and Earl Grey.

“Moriarty has a key code in his possession that can unlock any door, vault, prison and gain him access to missile activation across the globe.” Mycroft told her as she placed his cup in front of him.

“Bloody hell.” Arabella stated.

“Quite. We believe he could bomb NATO in alphabetical order if he wished.” Mycroft said. Arabella sipped her tea and began turning the gears in her brain, wondering how she could assist MI6 in countering the key code and setting up security parameters beyond the normal precautionary standards.

“How can I help?” she asked.

“I need to know if this key code can be cracked. Right now, he has simultaneously broken into The Tower of London, The Bank of England, and Pentonville Prison.” He said.  
She gasped before he finished with, “He has taken nothing. Only Sherlock’s name is written on the case of the crown jewels. He will not stop here, and while we have him in our custody I need you to find a code to counter the one he is using.” Mycroft stated, his brow furrowed and Arabella realized he was worried. Worried for his little brother and the threat his arch nemesis had arisen to.  


“I know you are in love with him, Babe.” He said quietly, almost a threat lacing his words and she pulled her hand away. He was the one to put fear in her heart from day one, and as her heart beat raced she cursed the way she did not fear death, but feared Mycroft Holmes. She could not deny it, would not. John had brought her from darkness, he had told her he would fight Mycroft for her, but at some point she would have to get away from him. It was up to her.

“I-“ she began to explain but he stopped her by rising from his seat and circling the kitchen counter to stand over her. She would not look at his eyes, merely braced her hands on the granite and waited.

“You must remember, Babe, you and I are similar creatures. We cannot feel, let alone entertain the notion of love. It is a fallacy. Nothing more. We both know John Watson deserves more.” He said, close to her ear, his chest barely against her shoulder, the label of his jacket brushing her arm. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain of his words and steeled herself with a deep breath.

“He loves me too, Mycroft. Endlessly.” She said, her voice clear and strong when she said it.

“Then do him the kindness of letting him go. What sort of life could you give him? Marriage? Children? Do you think John would marry a woman who sells herself for secrets, a murdering temptress he would have to share? You could never give him a family, sons. You and I both know that luxury was taken from you long ago.” And his words cut her deep, because in their harshness they were true, and this fairytale she had been living in was slipping from her grasp with the reality. She would not cry in front of him though, she would bleed out her heart later.

His hand rested upon her shoulder, “Let’s you and I carry on as before. Have I not always treated you well? Have I not given you everything? You are protected; cared for, you have a home and an education just as you told me you wanted most when you were twelve years old.” She bit her lip and looked the other way, still refusing to meet his eyes as her heart was being carved by his words. He had been all she had known, she had loved him, fiercely and religiously all of her life. But that had changed hadn’t it? She shook her head blinking back her tears and balling her hands into fists. At last he relinquished his hand and crossed the room to exit, stopping and turning to her.

She lifted her head and met his eyes as he said, “You have much to think on and I understand this reality is breaking your heart. Hearts break, Arabella. People die. Caring is not an advantage.” He said and then was gone, his umbrella picked up from the doorway, the front closing with a resounding click. She carefully fell back against the cabinets and slid to the floor, her eyes crying and her tears sliding into the sleeves of her sweater as she covered her face with her wrists.

When John entered the house, he found her on the couch with her laptop deeply involved in whatever she was doing.

“Not guilty. They let him off!” John said as he paced across her living room. Arabella gaped at him.

“Sod this! How can they let him go?” he yelled, his anger filling the room. Arabella simply watched him her brain working overtime at this puzzle, running her fingers over her forehead and eyes. She had been unable to break down the key code to discover its origin or its exact specifications. It was making the potential of creating a counter code to invalidate it even more impossible than she had originally assumed.

“Moriarty is with Sherlock on Baker Street right now, isn’t he?” she asked. John simply crossed his arms and sat beside her, a grim look upon his face. In all of her field experience, she had never encountered someone like Jim Moriarty, a man who’s genius bordered on insanity and was close to diving from that cliff. He had said he was going to burn the heart from Sherlock, but Arabella could still not predict how. Neither could John, but she knew he was worried, knew he was lost in all of this. Carefully, she grabbed his hand and pulled his eyes to hers.

“We’ll help him, John. However we can.” She said.


	23. Chapter 23

The Ambassador’s children were missing from their school, swept off without a trace and Greg Lestrade called in the one detective to make heads or tails of any impossible case. John went as well, leaving Arabella despite her attempts to come along. She was getting rather tired of being coddled and missed working with Sherlock, finding her life boring outside of cases and missions. She was almost fully recovered, despite some soreness of course, and her wound had shrunk significantly. Sure, Sherlock would solve everything but that didn’t mean she couldn’t help.

Arabella tried to busy herself with more research on the key code, but after following one dead end after another, she was quite bored. Carefully she showered and put on sweat pants and a camisole and made her way to the kitchen. She heated up some left overs the cook had left and ate with a glass of pinot noir. At last, her phone rang and John informed her that Sherlock had found the missing children using a foot print collected from the school corridor. They had spent most of the day at the lab and had discovered the little ones stashed in an abandoned chocolate factory, slowly being poisoned by mercury.

“The little girl screamed bloody murder as soon as she saw him.” He said.

“Who?” Arabella asked, confused.

“Sherlock.” He said, and suddenly pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, she heard the slightest shred of doubt in his voice and instantly knew what was happening.

“I’m on my way to Baker Street. Be there soon.” She said and ran up the stairs to throw on a wine colored tank top, her black motorcycle jacket, jeans and gray ankle boots. She texted Hartford and when he brought the car round she got in and pulled her long curls into a ponytail, quickly tapping out an e-mail on her mobile to Mycroft to reveal Moriarty’s plan. It would not go through as she got out at the curb on Baker Street. She heard sirens and flashing lights and bolted up the stairs quickly to hear John and Sherlock arguing relentlessly.

“Don’t you see it? He had only to plant the idea in your mind. You cannot stop an idea once it’s here!” Sherlock shouted. Arabella then entered and both of them turned to her.

“Hear those sirens? Anyone care to explain to me why they are on their way here?” she asked.

“Great. They’re arresting you now.” John said. And in moments Lestrade, his superior and a number of officers had Sherlock in handcuffs.

“This is ridiculous, Lestrade and you know it.” Arabella stated as he was arrested for suspicion of kidnapping. He wouldn’t look at her, just led Sherlock down the stairs whilst the larger man stayed and looked at the flat speculatively. As he muttered insults to the character of the flat and its reflection of Sherlock himself, Arabella looked at John and noticed he was at his snapping point. And snap he did, with his fist into the poor man’s bulbous nose. Thrown against the car she watched as both of them were cuffed and debated on how in the bloody hell she was going to get them out of this. It made her heart ache to see the two greatest men alive being treated as if they were common criminals, but in an instant, Sherlock had turned the tables.

Mrs. Hudson had joined Arabella on the steps at the instant Sherlock fired two warning shots into the night sky. The noise did not startle her as everyone else scampered to get down and Mrs. Hudson tugged Arabella down with her. Arabella simply remained standing and crossed her arms giving Sherlock a cross look, her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. Her heart then hit the floor when he turned the gun to John, the pistol aimed at his temple. On shaky knees she fell to the ground and waited and then, the two were gone into the night and pursuit began.

“You had better hope they don’t catch him.” Lestrade said, aiming a finger at Arabella, and it dawned on her then he did not want to believe that Sherlock had staged every crime and then solved it to make himself look clever. Greg was simply in a position to which he could not escape duty. When his eyes met hers she simply nodded and helped Mrs. Hudson up. She knew Sherlock would never harm John, but could not stop the rage she felt that he had taken the situation this far. Knowing her limits in that moment she decided attempting to chase the two was out of the question, leaving her back to square one, waiting, and once Mrs. Hudson had calmed she went back to Mayfair to do just that.

“Please tell me you’ve never lied to me.” John said when the door flung open and he came into the living room. Arabella looked shocked a moment and then he handed her the heavy file he carried with him. It was late and she was sitting by the phone wondering where or what the two had gotten into. He looked shaken, scared, and angry, his emotions worn so proudly on his face it nearly took her breath. As she opened it she found information on one Richard Brooks, an actor with the identical appearance of Moriarty. In the file were documents on staged crimes, from before Arabella had entered their lives, and her hands shook with anger.

“I’ve never lied to you, John. But this… this is before I even came to 221B. You know there’s only one other person who could know all of this.” She said to him firmly, standing and closing the file.

“And he didn’t send you? To find all of this out and report it back? Because right now I have no idea what to believe anymore.” He said.

Arabella felt tears stinging her eyes and rubbed her fingertips across her forehead, her long bangs creating a curtain when she looked down. It hurt more than words that John would accuse her of such betrayal. Sure, Mycroft had sent her in an effort to protect his little brother when Moriarty’s threats arose, but she had revealed nothing to him. He knew it of his own accord. Finally she looked up at him, the tears balancing on her bottom lashes.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” she said, biting her lip and then watching as he stormed from the house, her head high despite the wound his words had dealt.

She would not see John the next morning or most of that day, and she would never see Sherlock Holmes again. That next afternoon, she found John in his chair, before the fireplace in the flat on 221 B Baker Street, the black leather chair adjacent to be empty, forever. Arabella held her tears in, but felt something inside of her break when she saw John. In that moment, his pain was hers, and she felt it, the magnitude of it and she loved him so very much that it doubled over the prospect of knowing he was in pain. Carefully, she crossed the room and gazed at the dust motes floating in the beam of light across the chair. Arabella placed one hand on his thigh, and eased down to her knees beside him. His index fingers were pressed together in a point against his nose, his eyes were far away.

“John I…” she began to say, but her voice cracked and stopped as the knot formed and began choking her. He tried to reply, nothing came out but a choked sound and he quickly locked his lips together. She looked away as the tears began to fall, her throat raw from the constriction, her breathing uneven from holding it in an effort to keep from crying. She wanted to be strong for him now, as he had been for her.

“He’s not coming back.” Was all he said before he slid from his chair, to the rug beneath them and crying into his right hand, his fingers blocking his eyes. Arabella said nothing at all, and when he looked at her the floodgates opened, so much hurt in his eyes, and she carefully reached for his hand. In an instant he pulled her close one arm gripping her shoulders, the other around her waist and his strength dissolving into nothing. They would never forget how eerily quiet all of London seemed that day, as if the world had stopped at Sherlock’s suicide. The violin to never resound from the flat, the last sounds to fill it were the sobs of the loved ones Sherlock had left behind.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: John Watson and Arabella smut. Proceed with caution as I did try to make it tasteful and romantic.

Everyone took his death as a hard blow, but no one more so than John Watson. He barely spoke to Arabella or Mrs. Hudson after that day in the flat, and would not go back to that place. Arabella told him to stay with her, their fight forgotten, the mistrust and accusations buried for a time. It was hard to see him so broken, so silent and she didn’t dare try to coerce conversation from him, just tried to get him to eat when he would. She knew that he had been the last person Sherlock called, that John had been standing there when he fell from the Reichenbach. He mostly sat on her couch; fingers pressed into his temple and his eyes far away, a glass of Macalan single malt in one hand. And when Arabella would leave the room, she’d look at him knowing he couldn’t see her and give him a sad look, wishing like hell she could take his pain away.

The morning of the funeral, they dressed in silence, Arabella wearing a black skater dress and the green scarf she had gifted Sherlock for Christmas. She found it in the flat and could not let it sit gathering dust. She wanted to remember how he had worn it with pride, although he never said so he simply swapped the blue one out for it. It let her know he considered her a friend. She had just pulled on her black pointed toe flats and then the vintage 50’s black hat, and emerged from the closet to find John in the mirror fussing with his tie. She waited a moment as he tied it perfectly, then undid it and retied it again, clearly seeing some flaw in it.

“Let me.” She said, touching his shoulder and causing him to turn. He huffed out of his nose, his eyes on her face as she concentrated and completed the knot. She gave a small grin at the perfection and rested her hand on the lapel of his suit. He reached and clasped her hand against his chest with his, her blue eyes lifting to his. John did not say a word, did not have to, because his eyes conveyed everything when they were locked on hers. She closed hers and felt his heartbeat against her palm, knowing it was badly broken, but thankful it was still there.

Hartford took them to Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson was waiting on the front steps and they proceeded to the church across the city. Most of it was a blur and in what felt like merely minutes they stood before a glossy black tombstone with his name on it, just the three of them trying hard to understand how and why he had left them so suddenly. Mrs. Hudson was crying and talking about the flat, so Arabella gently embraced her shoulders and led her away, to give John some time alone. He’d had so much of it lately but she knew he needed to say his goodbyes and he would not open up with them so near.

Moments later they had taken Mrs. Hudson back to Baker Street.

“You take care of him, dear. He’s right broken. I fear he might never be the same again.” She said, holding Arabella’s cheek. She simply nodded and cried, the two ladies hugging before she returned to the car. They walked in the front door of Mayfair, John ridding himself of his tie and overcoat, and Arabella poured them each a glass of scotch and put on her record, finding comfort in the gospel stylings of Elvis Presley. In silence their glasses were drained and Arabella refilled them, hoping that soon it would start to numb the inner turmoil, perhaps ease some of John’s.

“I think I’d like to feel… anything but this. This pain.” He said, draining his glass, and causing Arabella to turn to him from the window across the room. Her eyebrows were pulled down, her lips slightly open. Carefully she crossed the sitting room to where he sat and grabbed his hand pulling him to stand in front of her. She took the empty glass and stood it on the side table and looked into his eyes. Carefully, she ran her hands down his cheeks, her thumb touching beneath his eyes and leaned in until their lips were a breath apart. It was only a split second of hesitation before she kissed him with everything she had, turning her head at just the right angle and pouring everything she felt into the press of his lips. He promised to never hesitate again, and he didn’t. He took her hair in one fist and pressed his chest to hers as he deepened the kiss, holding her waist and teasing her with the dart of his tongue.

His emotions rocked her and as he delved her tongue between his lips she tried to pour her love and heart out, wanting him to feel the turbulence spilling from her chest. Arabella pulled away to kiss his neck and when she pressed her body to his she felt his arousal. She pulled back to gaze into his eyes covered by pale lashes and bit her lip.

“I’m in love with you, John. My heart is yours and yours alone.” She whispered her voice husky with lust and thick with desire. For as long as she could remember she had been seducing strangers, but in this moment there was only one man in the world she wanted, the only man she had wanted for a while. He had burrowed inside of her heart and it had set her free from the pain and torment of her past. Caught up in their passionate kissing he backed to the couch and she lowered herself to straddle him, ruffling his light hair and biting his lip when she pulled away. He groaned and it was the sexiest sound she had ever heard, making her realize that although he had always been calm and controlled, John Watson was in fact, a man with desires.

“We should take this upstairs. Do this proper.” He said, his breathing hard and his pale blue eyes dark with his desire. She eased from his lap and pulled on his hand, leading him up the stairs. Once in the long hallway he grabbed her waist and pushed her against the wall, holding her wrists above her head and nibbling her neck and ear. A gasp escaped her lips when he did, then he stopped to look into her lovely sapphire eyes.

“It was always you. That night you were on our front steps, I knew I’d never be able to let you go. I don’t want you with me as a toy or something for me to possess, I want you by my side. My beloved, my partner, and I want to make love to you, face to face.” He said his voice low and nearly a whisper. It tugged a place deep in her heart and in an instant she fell harder for this man, so far gone in his passion she never wanted out. When he released her lips she pushed off of the wall and backed him into her open bedroom door, tugging the buttons of his dress shirt and feeling him stumble out of his shoes. He turned her around to face the bed as he pushed her blonde hair to one side and kissed her exposed straight spine as the zipper of her dress eased down. Quickly, she was facing him again and he laid her back on the bed when she was in nothing but her deep purple lace bra and panties. His pants were next to go as he pressed himself to her center, hands roaming over her and then he was kissing the tops of her breasts spilling out of her bra. He didn’t want to think about how many men she had made love to, but it occurred to him that while she had been a plaything, no one had ever given her actual pleasure. She used her skills on other, not the other way around, and as he eased her panties from her short, delicious thighs he decided to do just that. Arabella felt her brain going into a tailspin the minute his lips delicately pressed to the ones between her thighs. His eyes darted up to hers as his hands roamed her waist before he blew delicately on her hot, wet center.

“Why don’t you just lie back and let me show you how an angel should really be treated?” one blonde brow quirking seductively. The sensations she felt when his tongue dipped expertly left her gasping and moaning, feeling things she had never felt before. She had never felt so much pleasure, never knew men did things like this, or maybe just men like John Watson did. Soon there was a pull low in her belly and when his finger dipped inside of her and pressed against that sweet spot she screamed out her very first orgasm, fire ripping through her, toes curling deliciously and sweetness pouring between her legs. In that moment he had given her something no man had ever given her, an orgasm more powerful than anything she had felt, her first one ever. 

He was smiling like the cat that ate the canary and she couldn’t blame him. He should have been bloody proud having driven her speechless and to making animalistic sounds because no one had certainly done that before. When he climbed back over her he held her head in his hand and braced his weight on the other. He didn’t break eye contact as he entered her, feeling her tight body surround him as he sank lower until she had taken him to the base. From beneath him she rolled her hips causing his pelvis to grind against her clit and they both moaned softly, their breaths mingling. As he began to move, their position changed, as he backed against the headboard and she straddled him. He didn’t want this to be like any other time, didn’t want to climb on top and simply take her. He worshipped her body as she slid down his and gave him everything she had.

For the first time in her life this wasn’t just sex, he was making love to her and accepting everything she was giving back. His body was not perfect, but it was perfect to her, because it was his character, his depth that sent her over the edge every time their eyes locked, every time he gave her his kind smile, the one that touched his eyes and eased the furrows from his brow. He grabbed her delicious rear to pull her down harder, feeling his orgasm building and hers as well, her walls clamping him in time with her movements. When he felt her coming, her sweetness dripping down his length and her walls clenching to vacuum tight he let himself go, pushing her back to the bed and spilling inside of her. She bit his shoulder and cried out his name as he hardened and filled her completely.

Their breathing was erratic and she swallowed hard to re wet her throat from screaming. He eased out of her and laid on his back beside her, suddenly laughing and running his hands down his face.

“Bloody hell. That was…” he said still out of breath.

“My first ever orgasms. And it was… beyond words.” She mumbled, sill seeing stars and feeling like her body was on the best drugs.

He rolled over on his elbow and quirked a brow at her, then realized that while seduction was her job, no one had ever given her the pleasure. She was literally like a robot, an agent and she was usually just doing a job. The weight of what they had done became more spectacular in his eyes. Suddenly his eyes widened as he realized everything that had transpired.

“You are on the pill, right?” he asked. She bit her lip and suddenly looked nervous, causing a brief heart attack. Slowly she sat up, pulling a pillow to cover her torso and he followed suit.

“There’s something you should know, about me. At the academy, the house for girls where I was trained, before the final initiation there’s a procedure.” She said, her words falling from her lips quickly.

“I’m… I can’t. Have children. Ever.” She finished, her eyes meeting his, his eyebrows pulled down as he watched her. There were no words he could say, nothing he could tell her to erase that dreadful memory, that dreadful time in her life, so he gave her his sympathetic smile and pulled her in to kiss her. Lazily they both sank into the mattress as they carefully lay beneath the covers, her hair spilled across his chest as he held her in his arms. Another thing she had never had was this, post coital cuddling. She was rather fond of it was well, and hoped this was the start of a new life for her.


	25. Chapter 25

After all that had transpired between Arabella and himself, John decided it was time they both leave London. He could not bear the city, all the memories of the cases he and Sherlock had solved, and he knew Arabella was finally ready to be away from Mycroft. They needed to start a new life, get away for a while, a holiday as it were. He hated the notion he was running to hide and nurse his wounds, but his best friend had died, and the hole it left was more painful the closer he was to everything they had done together. The hole in his life would never close he knew, and if he thought on it too long the devastation would move him to tears, it wasn’t just the death that haunted him, it was the manner in which Sherlock had left. When he closed his eyes he could only see his bloody battered form on the concrete.

The next morning he awoke early to begin planning his next move, to find somewhere to go. He would find work far away, something easier than what he had known. He was a doctor after all, how hard could it be to find a small clinic somewhere? He showered and dressed quickly; leaving Arabella still curled in the sheets as he made his way across town. Last night was the start of the rest of their lives, and focusing on that helped him to keep from breaking down.

Arabella had not been sleeping, and just before seven am, after the front door closed, she rose from the bed and showered. She had been unable to sleep last night, thinking of what she was going to have to do this morning. She would have to face down her fear in his brown eyes and tell him goodbye. She felt nearly split in half at the thought, knowing John was her future but also knowing in so many ways she would always love Mycroft Holmes. To say she was nervous was an understatement, and she took longer than she had planned dressing herself that morning. She picked a pale blush dress with a tulle skirt, tan ankle boots and ivory cardigan, and wore her hair down around her shoulders letting her ends curl naturally as they dried. She settled for light concealer, mascara and pink gloss. Standing in the mirror she felt like she looked like a different person, and she felt the constriction in her chest as she descended the stairs, the car by the front to pick her up.

Mycroft was working, tracking Moriarty’s network across greater Europe and assigning agents to each major city. He would send the best assassins out to ensure there were no traces left of the mad man. Carefully, he lifted his cup to sip his tea and then ran his fingers over his brow. He lifted his head when he heard her soft melodic voice fill the corridor outside, carefully adjusting his posture and looking bored. When the door opened, he reacted only internally, his Babe looking like a bright angel, the light color of her dress and hair bringing back the memory of the frightened dove.

“I’m glad you are here. I am prepping the details of your next assignment. You’ll be going to Romania to help disassemble Moriarty’s network.” He said. She did not take a seat, simply stood before his desk looking him over. For a man who’s little brother had just ended his life he was certainly holding it together rather well. Although, what did she expect? To console him as she had John the past few days? No that was not Mycroft. Closing her eyes she breathed in deeply a moment and steeled herself for the onslaught emotions to soon run rampant through her bloodstream.

“I’m not going.” She said as firmly as she could manage, her eyes locking to his when she spoke. He lifted a brow curiously and crossed his hands across the documents on his desk, a small sideways smirk pulling his lips.

“Of course. Because you are in… love. And that changes everything does it?” he asked, a mocking undertone in his words.

“He is not like you, Mycroft. This has destroyed him inside, he is a wreck. He was so alone and Sherlock changed that for him. You know this. Now he needs me.” She said, passion filling her voice when she spoke of John, the man her heart had turned over for.

“So that is it then? You will replace my brother? As if you could ever compete with his intellectual magnitude.” He said bitterly, rising from his desk and turning his back to her as he gazed at the gardens beyond the tall windows. She fished her clearance badge and government issued amex from her bag and laid them on his desk. She started to turn from him, to cross the carpet before his words stopped her.

“I have loved you, Arabella. In the only way I have ever been capable.” He said his voice soft and clouded as if he were speaking around a lump in his throat. Then he turned, and she saw moisture in his eyes, as he approached her and laid his hand upon the curve of her lovely olive cheek. Her big blue eyes blinked into his, fixated, the sapphire burning deep into his soul. She swallowed, tears forming in her eyes and feeling as if a part of her were being ripped, as if a bullet were tearing through her again.

“I have assured you were taken care of, Arabella. Whether you knew it or not. The night you broke, the night when you blacked out from your torture at the Academy, I was by your bedside all night. Unable to leave you, crippled at the sight of you so wrecked. The night of your initiation, it was my bedroom you were sent to for so many reasons. The most important being that I could not let someone else touch you, hurt you. I wanted to give you, to tell you that night in a way I could never verbally how precious you are to me.” He whispered, eliciting her tears to fall, her lips trembling as she cried softly hearing his words.

She could not deny in this moment the irony of their conversation, because of course he would tell her the truth at her goodbye. He watched her cry as his eyes held hers full of pain and heartache, and when finally she was able to speak, he took her words with care, listening as he never had before.

“I fell in love with you the night you found me, Mycroft Holmes. I could not stop, I kept falling and falling. You have been all I have known and wanted my whole life. Yet, now I have the chance to be loved in the light, loved for who I am despite my past transgressions. I cannot lose that.” She whispered, waiting. He merely nodded, his lips a thin line, and in a second he did the one thing she had never expected. He grasped her waist and pulled her to his chest in the tenderest embrace, sobs racking her body at his kindness, his touch at last. He rubbed the back of her hair and kissed the top of her head. “I understand I must let you go. If I love you as much as I have said. However, your loss will break my heart.” He choked out tenderly. She simply nodded against his vest and tried to memorize the cologne she’d smelled on her bed sheets for nights on end, feel his beating and previously mythical, heart, feeling his erratic breathing at the pain he was in. He pulled her back and tucked her hair behind both of her ears, giving her a kind and sad smile.

“At least, may I kiss you goodbye?” he asked, his throat clearing and his eyes blinking back his tears. Arabella could deny him nothing, she never could and she would not deny him this. He needed closure, she did too and so very carefully, she leaned up on her tip toes as he grasped the back of her neck and their lips met. She closed her eyes, felt the breath leave his nose and tried to remain composed and altogether. They lingered in that pose for fleeting minutes that felt like seconds, because it was too long and not nearly long enough. Mycroft could not deny he felt like a dagger were twisting in his back and Arabella knew in his eyes this would forever be her fall from grace as soon as their kiss broke.

It could not last and in synchronization they let go, their hands falling from each other, their lips parting and it seemed there was nothing else to be said. Arabella pressed her hand to her lips, treasuring this moment, the kiss goodbye and knowing she would never be who she was, would never have found John had Mycroft not led her down that path fourteen years ago. She gathered her bag and placing it over her shoulder made her leave.

“Arabella?” he called, so softly she knew she almost had not heard it. Carefully she turned staring at the top of his head.

In an instant his eyes met hers, “I love you with every part of my mentality I can spare”. She gave him a sweet, sympathetic smile, her eyes still glassy.

“I love you, Mycroft Holmes. With all of my heart.” She said and in a second, the door closed and everything was forever changed.


	26. Chapter 26

Arabella could not hold back the relief that flooded her heart as she left Mycroft’s office that day. They had said their goodbye, and she would never forget the moment. His admission that all he had done over the years was out of love, changed her image of her tainted past. Her new purpose was to help John heal, to love him and be for him what he had been for her. She first went back to Mayfair to pack up her things, knowing she could not stay in the house because the British Intelligence would want it back. Nothing about her life was free after all. She began filling her suitcase with her more sensible clothing items, not sure where they would go next but doubting it would require any of the sexy, formal gowns she had donned over the years. However, she decided taking some of her more exquisite lingerie might be handy on special occasions with the man she adored. John’s old connections from medical school led him to find that the local practitioner in Bibury Gloucestershire had passed peacefully of old age just two days prior and the small town was in need of a new doctor. It seemed no one was at all interested in the position, almost any practitioner bound to be over qualified and wanting to stay within London and near Cambridge in order to make more money. John took the job immediately and promised he would be in town by that evening. He found there was an apartment, fully furnished, above the clinic and while the doctor had resided in his home with his wife, it would be perfect for him and Arabella. Sure of himself he made it back to Mayfair and opened the door, finding her Burberry suitcase in the foyer. He found her in the living room boxing up her record player and her vinyl and he smiled. She was all he had now, she was his life. He had a choice to make this a bloody good one from here on out, and he had every intention to. “Hope you’re ready for a quiet life.” He said as he crossed the room and helped her lift the heavy old records. “So what’s the plan then, love?” she asked smiling as he carried the box to the foyer, following with the record player in tow and placing both by her suitcase. John relayed the plan to her and she placed her hands on her hips and took a deep breath and smiling at him. “Home has always been where you are. It’s why I stayed on Baker Street every chance I had.” She told him, causing a sad smile to grace his face. “It’s time to start over. What better way than together.” He answered and gave her a kiss, before pulling out his mobile and calling a cab. They took a cabbie and then a train to arrive in the very small town, the streets lined with lanterns and stone cottages stacked high and close together. The grass was so green, flowers growing and it seemed so strange at first to be in a place so beyond their norm. Suitcases in tow, John’s filled with the clothes he had packed before leaving the flat at 221B for the last time to stay with Arabella, and followed the address he had jotted down to the clinic. Once they stood before it, he realized the only difference between it and the rest of the homes was the sign on the glass window. The front door was unlocked, as he was told it would be, and as they entered their new home they laughed at the dramatic turn things had taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided that it is best to continue my story with John and Arabella on a new work. I think her story with John has reached a hiatus and would like to start fresh with of course, Sherlock's return!


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